


i love you, ain't that the worst thing you ever heard?

by taylorswift



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: And when I say slow burn I mean it, Angst beyond all belief, Avengers Family, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Canon Compliant, Canon Timeline, F/M, Filming, Friends to Lovers, Mild Sexual Content, On Set, Slow Burn, There was a tag for it so I added it, These fools won't give it a rest so I guess I'll just keep at this until I die, This fic is gonna hurt y'all, This might dethrone BCW as my magnum opus but we shall see, To quote myself: Renner thinks with his dick and Scarlett doesn't think at all, Welcome to another self-indulgent therapy fic because that's all I know how to write anymore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2020-09-26 16:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 59,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20392951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylorswift/pseuds/taylorswift
Summary: If something never truly begins, then it never has to end.ORthe rennerson timeline, as told by me.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> there is one person responsible for this, and her name is taylor alison swift. in all the years that i've been loving/writing these two losers, i've never thought to myself, "i should just bite the bullet and write a canon story for them!" i've only done that one other time in my life, and it was back in 2012 (and is now revamped into a book you can buy on amazon). as much fun as it is to think and refer back to the "canon" events in jeremy and scarlett's history, they have _quite_ the history and a lot of it is incredibly vague and fluid, meaning that for every event that's happened, i have about 4 different interpretations of it. that, and i just never had the muse to write through their timeline, so why bother, you know? i was content to make references until the sun went down and let that be that. and then on the twenty-third miss swift just HAD to come out of the woodwork with lover, an album that i not only love and cherish with every ounce of my soul, but came and sucker-punched me in the gut with such severe rennerson feelings that i cried on the way home from target to arguably one of the happiest tracks. thus, this idea was planted in my head and because i'm crazy, i decided to say fuck it. here we are. no looking back. we doing it. in it to win it, baby!!! 
> 
> **disclaimer** before we get this show on the road: normally i don't give disclaimers. i think if you click on a fic that has real people in the tags then you pretty much know what you're getting yourself into at this point and anything your pretty lil eyes absorbs is entirely on you. that said, this is a fic, as in fiction. i don't know these people (even if i like to think i know them better than they do). everything in this fic is just my interpretation of their history; it'll be grounded in reality (obviously) but i'm going to take creative liberty where i see fit, i'm gonna add stuff and take it away and not mention alternate interpretations even if i do have them, and i'm ultimately gonna have fun. y'all know i am the type of person who will research until her eyeballs bleed because i like for things to be as accurate as humanly possible and whatnot and i'm just gonna forewarn you now, dates and places will be roughly 89% on the nose. i'm forcing myself to restrain on that 11% because renner and scar are both private people, a lot of these events are YEARS old at this point and y'all, i have a job, i don't have time to scour the deep web for their whereabouts on august 32, 1875, you feel me? hopefully you'll be able to tell what's what, and if you can't, please don't hesitate to ask me! i'm gonna write this story until i give out, especially since they've decided that they're just gonna keep giving me content as of 2019, so hold on for dear life. 
> 
> i wouldn't call this playlist this fic's official soundtrack, but if you're ever looking for songs that remind me of rennerson, i have a whole playlist right here for you to consume that i update pretty regularly: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/28AqtRshcFimMLYieORVbt
> 
> leave a little love in a comment below, feedback is what keeps the electricity running around these parts. come hang out with me on twitter @emswifts and tumblr @nvtasha and instagram @strrlights - i love talking crackhead theories and giving hugs via the internet! happy reading xx

❝ We met, what was it? Some ten years ago, right? At some young Hollywood party, and uh...you were in a dark corner. She was all put together, kinda like she is now; with her hair all done up, makeup glistening, and this beautiful gown, and then she’s wearing these dirty old pair of Converse sneakers. And that image sort of stuck with me. ❞

☆

In Scarlett’s humble opinion, the best part of being in movies is getting to go to the parties, second only to actually being _in_ movies.

Hollywood parties, however, aren’t the kind of parties she’s used to. When stacked in comparison, the kind of parties she frequented back home might as well have chipped paint peeling from the walls, places where the floorboards are coming up, cigarette smoke snuffing out the smell of her perfume no matter how strong she wears it and making the air hazy, dark and toeing the edge of what is risky and what is very much illegal. Some of them have been like that in a literal sense.

Her idea of a party is someone’s living room or basement when an authority figure is out working a late night. Parties are a few bags of chips and alcohol bought with a fake ID down at the ABC or stolen from someone’s older sibling’s bedroom stash, shotgunning pot from her friends and boys who will be stuck waiting and wishing forever that they’d give her another reason for the raspy voice. Parties are her sprawled in her boyfriend’s lap, laughing at some joke out of Natalie's mouth over the thick vibrations of a song when she isn’t too busy dancing to it on top of the coffee table. She’s not a stranger to going to a bar or club (her fake ID is easily the best birthday present Vanessa could’ve ever given her and she will owe her for that for many years to come) or milling around the streets she knows like the back of her hand, but she’s never needed anything bombast or commercial to have fun and call it a celebration.

Of course, that’s all the quintessential young Hollywood party is. They’re held in restaurants or bars or hotel conference rooms where there is almost always some kind of chandelier crying crystal tears over her head. It’s pretty – sparkly things catch her eye, but they don’t hold her interest for long. She wants to know if she can smoke out on the patio or if she’ll have to pray to a god that she knows doesn’t take her calls that the bathrooms will be well-ventilated and lacking girls with dollar bills in line for the sinks. She wants to know what kind of music they’re going to play, if it’ll be deafening or like an elevator. She wants to know who she’s going to bump shoulders with and whether it’ll be company she genuinely enjoys or puts the Vaseline on her teeth for.

Still, she accepts the invites with a gracious smile; she lets someone else turn her into a doll for the night and dress her, do her hair and makeup before dropping her off on the red carpet and reminding her to learn something while she’s there, maybe make some friends with a kiss to the forehead and a lingering smile that fades the minute she shuts the car door. She isn’t used to being handled. She doesn’t like it.

Most of the functions in Hollywood are the same. They have ‘young Hollywood’ tacked into the title somewhere and ‘young Hollywood’ has looser and looser of a definition every time she shows up – not that she’d complain any, but she predicts at the next one of these she attends, her publicist will be walking her up to George Clooney in the name of an introduction. It’s all in the spirit of camaraderie, of course, but contrary to semi-popular belief (she doesn’t know what people think about her and she doesn’t give much of a fuck about it either) she’s not exactly the type of girl who is good at playing the social butterfly. People are drawn to her, sure, fine, all whatever in her book. But she’s not quick to reciprocate it. Infatuations involving her are usually one-sided.

It’s how she finds herself in a dark corner of the room at this young Hollywood party, seizing a moment where she doesn’t have to be Scarlett Johansson who was in X, Y, and Z. It’s a moment to herself that she needs because she is officially over her heels grinding blisters into her feet (her publicist, stylist, assistant, and mother all agreed that the heels looked better with her dress even though she’s never in her life been a heels type of girl, and because she’s the type to die on even the most obscure hill, she smuggled a pair of Converse in the car and refused to get out if the Converse didn’t get to, too). She wants nothing more than to yell out her told-you-so’s, but anyone who would even pretend to care in listening is floating around the equally dark room playing their roles dutifully and beautifully. 

Except for her.

Her publicist would tell her to go say hi to someone. Her assistant would elbow her in the ribs and tell her to go ask the band to play a song she knows so she can dance. Her mother would tell her she’s being ridiculous. And truthfully? She doesn’t give a fuck. She’s never been good at the whole chameleon act. She is who she is, even if she’s in an environment where she’s clashing colors and hard pills to swallow.

She feels a little more normal now that she’s ditched the heels under a table where the thick white tablecloth makes them invisible (they’re no longer her problem) and spots one of the waiters floating in her general direction holding a fully stocked tray of glasses with sloshing and sparkling something in them. She’s not a complete pessimist – one bright spot to all these parties is that no one cares how old you are, liquor laws get a blind eye when you can name drop. She can, she will, and she does.

They’re passing out samples of some specialty cocktail they’re serving at the bar. It’s not groundbreaking, but it slides down her throat nicely and really gets her teeth aching for a whiskey sour. The waiter’s stop at her attracts a few other people in the vicinity, all of them with their grabbing hands (“young Hollywood” sure do drink like they’re fully legal) and glassy smiles of acknowledgement at her.

“Didn’t think you were old enough to drink,” someone says to her, catching her attention as the waiter and everyone else disperses back to the four winds of the room. It leaves just them standing in the corner, clutching to their glasses and giving each other once-overs.

Scarlett lifts an eyebrow quizzically, letting another small taste of the drink flood across her tongue. She recognizes him; being in the film industry means she does her homework with all the new releases. He was the guy who played Dahmer and gave her a nightmare after watching it. He’s presenting a little more normal to her now, dressed up just like she is and his blue eyes warm like the Atlantic in the summer when he smirks at her. The jury is out on whether it’s because someone other than a psychopathic serial killer is behind them or is just the work of the dim lighting in the room. 

“Didn’t think you were young enough to be young Hollywood.” She doesn’t have any idea how old he is really, but he’s got to at least be in his twenties, which, again, makes her wonder what constitutes as _young_ out here in the land of the rich and famous. He grins at her quip and it’s like his eyes are diamonds catching the light.

“Pretty _and _a ball-buster. Guess I was right about you being one talented woman.”

She shrugs insouciantly as she drains her glass. “I’m Jeremy,” he continues.

“I know,” she tells him, the bemused smile itching in the corners of her lips when she tilts her head to the side, letting the curtain of auburn curls shift off of her shoulder. “And, lemme guess, you know who I am.”

“’Course I do. You’re the girl who wears her rattiest pair of sneakers with a designer dress at a young Hollywood party.”

It steals a small laugh from the back of her throat erring mostly from the side of surprise he’s noticed, and he takes it like a gold medal around his chest. “They sure don’t make ‘em like you,” he says.

“Sure hope not,” she agrees. “Otherwise I’ll be in one of those waiter outfits serving you the specialty cocktail samples.”

“Nah. You’re great; you’ll be around longer than half the people here.” He pauses, those blue eyes of his cresting and breaking right over her head. “Besides, they’d never give you the job if they saw those shoes.”

He finishes off the rest of his drink and gives her a wink as a parting gift. She doesn’t know that that’s what it is, because she underestimates a lot of things (her allure and him in general among the top of the list) when a hand brushes her shoulder to slice right through whatever strings he’s tied to her attention. It’s someone who she probably ought to recognize, their show-smile overly enthusiastic as they sing a half-exalted praise about her work with Robert Redford and fish for a compliment that she doesn’t have for them.

It isn’t until the girl starts jabbering on about how much she loves Scarlett’s dress on her that she’s redirected back to what she was doing prior. She's met with the realization that Jeremy’s taken the exit and dissolved back into the darkness of the party without so much as an opportunity to close her mouth, wrack her brain for a witty line and get the last word in before _she_ sauntered away.

She’s not used to someone out-charming her. She’s not used to being the one left standing in the dust and darkness with a bunch of unspoken words still lingering on her lips and a stiffness in her limbs that prevents her from a desperation-driven chase to find them again. _She’s_ the one who deliberately turns up the heat on the burner plate, watching the other person slowly melt down until they’re exactly where she wants them. That’s her game, and she’s a heavily-decorated winner. Undefeated, even.

Until now.


	2. your name on my lips, tongue-tied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayeee we back!! i have to say a massive thank you to everyone who's clicked on this story, left kudos or subscribed or taken the time out of your day to comment or send me a little something about this — my love language is words of affirmation, especially when it comes to me just doing something on a fucking whim in which i need the validation for, and while i have really dedicated 2019 to writing the things that _i_ want to write (by complete accident) it's been so nice to have other people on the journey with me. it makes it thirteen thousand times more fun, it constantly floors me and it makes me want to keep pushing myself to be the best that i can possibly be FOR Y'ALL. SO, thank you thank you thank you for everything, but especially the love on that prologue that i legit slapped together in one sitting. I'M DOING MY BEST NOT TO BE SO ANAL ABOUT ACCURACY (even though i spent an hour the other night chronicling every movie j & s have done between 2011-now and the filming and release/promo dates) AND TO JUST HAVE FUN, AND SO FAR I'M HAVING A BLAST, SO WE WILL SEE WHERE IT TAKES US, FRIENDS. LOVE Y'ALL LONG TIME. also, do i look like i have ever been to/worked at sdcc? no. give me that inch of suspension of disbelief/creative liberty, y'all. i need her.
> 
> random fun fact: i pinterest-board for all of my major fics, especially in the moments where i just simply don't feel like being a good writer and actually, you know, _writing_, so if you're interested in checking out the one i have for this fic here's that magical link! https://www.pinterest.com/heliophilix/fic-i-love-you-aint-that-the-worst-thing-you-ever
> 
> this chapter goes out to two people: nat, who's celebrating a birthday today (happy, happy birthday my dear!), and amanda, who deserves a little extra love on today of all days + the reminder that she is a goddamn superhero. love you ladies!
> 
> chapter title comes from taylor swift's 'i forgot that you existed' because...well, yeah. i'm always lurking on twitter @emswifts or tumblr @nvtasha so don't be shy or a stranger, i love to hear from you guys and talk about why i am an actual clown in between my regularly scheduled breakdowns over fandom and education! happy reading xx

** ACT I **

❝ _It's new, the shape of your body  
__It's blue, the feeling I've got_ ❞ 

— Taylor Swift (Cruel Summer)

☆

Scarlett’s never gotten a business email before with the subject line _DELETE IMMEDIATELY AFTER READING _and so many different urgent flagging features she didn’t even know existed – if she wasn’t any the wiser, she would have expected the email to physically self-destruct once she reached the end of the screen. Having the email from Joss and Kevin about the surprise _Avengers _appearance at Comic Con in her inbox is the every-man’s equivalent of carrying a live grenade in the back pocket of their jeans, so she permanently trashes the message after a brief skim through.

If someone had asked her ten, five, even three years ago if Marvel would have been the current keeper of her keys, she would have fully ignored the question and kept walking. She was content to make indie films in the middle of back-alleys with nearly nonexistent budgets. In comparison, Marvel was vaguely anathema. She already had to bust her ass three times as hard and still wound up with a sticker on her forehead that said ‘use me as your masturbatory material’ that she couldn’t shake. By all accounts, signing onto a film targeted to the fanboy population – a population of the prime type to use her as masturbatory material – seemed like a horrible idea. She’d screen tested anyways, just to shut up the chirping voice of her agent that wouldn’t stop trilling in her ear about how it was the career opportunity of a lifetime.

There was one thing that pushed her more than a committed director or a groundbreaking script, and that was failure. The role ultimately went to someone else. Even if she hadn’t wanted it to begin with, it didn’t stop the same age-old motions of rejection from rolling through, letting it form her however it was meant to along with all the other vain-attempt shit she did to help get over the roadblock that was ‘I failed.’

And _then_ there was the neck-break turn around call that the other girl fell through, and they wanted her to come back and test again. It came down to a pride thing; Scarlett knew actresses who weren’t the type to go back for the sloppy seconds of a role, deeming themselves above what they painted as groveling and another round of cat and mouse. Scott all but screamed at her that Emily Blunt bowing out was a sign-with-a-capital-S that this project was meant to be. Scarlett didn’t necessarily believe in signs, but she knew coincidences were as much myth as unicorns.

In the end, the failure’s forming and shaping was really a sail to carry her through the second wind. She ground her teeth, went in and fought for the role, and she got it. Along with the role came a massive contract, a _commitment,_ but the daunt of signing away years and years of her time and life and work ethic paled in comparison to the experience and the company. While _Iron Man 2 _wasn’t an indie film by any means, Downey Jr. and Favreau and the plethora of other lovely individuals made it very easy to forget the production level and the bruises littering her abdomen from all the fucking stunt training in a harness. 

It wasn’t long after press wrapped did the invisible strings of the Marvel contract get tugged on again, reminding her where she now belonged. This time it wasn’t a Downey-led superhero film where she played a backseat role (and not as the sexy secretary, as Favreau would remind her), it was an ensemble superhero film. Where, according to Joss – the new guy taking the reins – she would be the only female superhero in the roster.

God, she was going need a drink.

Fortunately, there’s a mini-bar on the plane to San Diego, which helps treat more than just the jitters bouncing around in her stomach. She doesn’t get intimidated easy. She’s the type to intimidate, the archer instead of the prey, and uncharted waters call to her more often than they steer her back towards the shores.

Scarlett smokes in the backseat of the car on the way to the convention center to the chagrin of her driver, the window rolled down to exchange cigarette smoke for California sunshine. Her publicist is purposefully angled towards the opposite car door to keep from inhaling it, nose buried in the agendas for the day and instructions that Scarlett gets the feeling she’d be shot on sight for reading even if they do involve her. That’s the one thing about Marvel she’s not sure she likes. They handle her and they handle her like she’s a piece of fine china.

“So, what brings you to San Diego?” her driver asks in the means of casual conversation as they’re breezing down the freeway, their eyes meeting in the rearview mirror. Beside her, Cece prickles, as if Scarlett doesn’t have any clue her life is on the line if she so much as breathes in a manner that would give an indication that she’s on Marvel’s timetable today.

“Work,” she answers with a smile.

Cece starts giving more explicit instructions the closer they get to the convention center, servicing as the GPS so they’re taken to the correct hidden entrance (apparently there is more than one). Before they get out, Cece shifts her body back to a position that’s facing Scarlett head-on to give her a quick once-over. Scarlett goes still and lets her do whatever she needs to, Cece’s hands running through the strands of hair that frame her face. “You look pretty,” she compliments, and Scarlett’s learned over the years that she can’t ever take a compliment like that seriously when it comes from someone on her payroll.

“Thanks,” Scarlett answers half-heartedly, following Cece’s lead and sliding back over towards her respective car door where someone is waiting to open it for her. 

There are four other black cars in the garage, their passengers unloading and milling around as security and plain-clothes cops try to direct the directionless show around them. Scarlett gravitates towards Cece as much as she can – Cece’s the one who knows everything at all, Scarlett’s just the puppet on strings that smiles when she’s told to – with her eyes flitting around the space, trying to gauge her surroundings.

Cece’s talking to one of the security guards a mile a minute, throwing words out like _talent _and _Hall H_ and _Group Hug_ at such a rate that it makes Scarlett’s brain spin. She feels rather like a little girl ambling around in her mother’s shadow and not knowing what to do with herself in the moments where Cece isn’t giving her direct orders aside from look at the concrete walls.

“Scarlett Johansson, as I live and breathe,” a voice drawls out, reverberating off of every corner the sound can find and coming back to her in an echo. She spins around, Cece being long forgotten when her sights settle on Robert. He’s wearing a burgundy dress shirt and blazer, matched perfectly with the pair of red-lensed aviators his eyes are hiding behind.

“Robert, hey,” she finds herself exhaling in relief, parting from Cece’s atmosphere and meeting his strides halfway. He pulls her in for a bare minimum kind of hug, his lips brushing over her cheek.

“Hello, lovely.” Robert holds her at arm’s length to get a sweeping glance of her. “You,” he says matter-of-factly. “Came to wipe the stage with the rest of us. Didn’t you?”

“You said it, not me.”

“You here to avenge with the best of ‘em?” he asks, eyebrows quirking up into his hairline. Robert’s the kind of person who makes everything else turn into background noise, and he does just that; the people rushing around them who are trying to abide by bibles of timeslots and strict schedules fade away into the blurs they want to be. It’s why she likes Robert. He’s someone who could stop time if he wanted, yet he chose to let it melt by naturally, never rushing through the moments as they came. Robert was in the top three of who Scarlett shared the most of her time on _Iron Man 2_ with, and it’s not a surprise that he was in the top three of who at Marvel she liked working with best when it came time to walk away.

“Well I didn’t come just because I had nothing else to do on a Saturday afternoon,” she quips. Robert breaks out into a smile, jaw tightening as he cracks down on his gum – a habit she probably ought to have if she doesn’t want to hear Cece regularly complain about hairspray-fume fires and the statistics of secondhand lung cancer.

Their publicists begin speaking in unison with different variations of roughly the same directions, Robert extending his elbow for Scarlett to take as they make their way inside.

Publicists, managers, and event staff are birds of a feather, Scarlett’s learned, and they will flock together given any opportunity. Security are the only people who actually keep their eyes on the talent, not caring that Scarlett and Robert move in the middle of the pack (and at a much slower pace than their teams). They’re meant to be a surprise even if the speculation about their presence is already there and dead on the nose, so they stick to concrete underground tunnels and service elevators as they weave through the massive convention center.

“I like the short hair,” Robert comments. “Suits you.”

“Thanks! Low maintenance,” Scarlett answers with a shrug, and then coupled with a deviously-shimmering grin, adds, “Just like me.”

Robert barks out a laugh, purposefully walking into her side and causing her to stumble slightly, pulling his arm a little closer to her chest to steady her. He doesn’t let her hit the pavement, of course; for all of her slightly obnoxious and all-around cooler younger sister tendencies, he is every bit the older brother she treats him like.

One thing that Scarlett has learned to associate Cece with is punctuality. If she’s with Marcel, she’ll be on time at best, most likely fashionably late. That’s because Marcel is nowhere near as high-strung as Cece; with Cece, things like potential traffic jams and getting lost and dealing with the overall horrors of the public get accounted into their schedule, which means they show up places criminally early. Robert’s only early because Robert has the pleasure of introducing the new guys at the panel and therefore has to be debriefed on how to use a microphone. They’re brought to one of the talent waiting areas in the backstage hallways that the public wouldn’t even know existed, given a separate little area all to themselves off of the same hall where their panel will be later in the afternoon. Black curtains hung up on rods divide each little waiting area up and give every respective cast their privacy should they want it.

Robert peels away per the request of his people (apparently using a microphone is an art that requires much preparation) and Scarlett sits down in the midst of hers. Cece’s still schmoozing with someone that’s got on a very official looking lanyard, meaning Scarlett might as well be invisible. Relying on her team for company in moments like these is like a child waiting for the adults to pause in their conversations to ask if she wants a snack. It’s a lot of people watching, trying to pick out pieces of conversations and generally feeling out of place even if she is the reason they’re here.

Her surroundings very quickly go from boring to black.

The warmth of someone else’s skin presses into her own as it covers her eyes, scaring her into rigidity before she realizes there isn’t a sudden swarm of tension around her and this has to be someone who belongs. “You wanna be on top?” a voice croons in her ear in the most ridiculous accent known to man, cracking straight through the ice as she puts the puzzle together.

“Mother fucker,” she swears, spinning around as the hands leave her eyes and return back to the sender. Chris Evans stands over her, leering like the little bitch she knows him to be, all too smug with the hint of delight at his tiny victory in scaring her. “I was always on top.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chris dismisses blasély. “Whatever helps ‘ya sleep at night, Scar.”

She wrestles him down to her level in a hug, her face just barely pressing into his shoulder as his chin rests at an awkward angle on top of her head. “Good to see ‘ya, pretty lady.”

“Pretty lady?” Scarlett asks dubiously, her eyebrows heightening up into her hairline. “We haven’t seen each other since 2008, and you’re _already_ wanting something from me. This has to be a new record.”

“What can I say? That corset of yours would make my tits look real good; I gotta have it in my closet for the next one of these we get roped into doing.” Chris sits down on the stool next to hers, and Scarlett carefully shifts over to make room.

If Robert is the older brother that she annoys, then Chris is the older brother that annoys her right back. They’ve got quite the stacked history between them, rolling back all the way to when they were barely seniors in high school and Scarlett was still getting new piercings every other week for the hell of it. This movie will be their ‘third time’s a charm’ film, and if _Avengers_ does half as well as Feige’s been praying it will, there is no end in sight of them ever escaping one another’s lives. 

Scarlett leans into him slightly, bumping her shoulder against his. “How’s the girlfriend?”

Chris shrugs half-heartedly in response. “Non-existent.” Scarlett scoffs – Chris keeps girls on the ropes the same way she does with guys, it’s why they get along so well (and why they will never, ever work as a couple without inciting a nuclear meltdown) – but Chris maintains his innocence, shaking his head in denial. Must be sleeping around then.

It’s his turn to bump her, his upper arm pushing on hers as he leans back into her side to balance them out. “How’s the husband?”

Scarlett tries not to scowl, swallowing hard around the irritation that forms in the pit of her throat any time he’s mentioned now. “He’s…Ryan.”

Chris has seen her naked before, so fronting around him, she forgets, is kind of impossible to do. He snorts, the smile reaching his otherwise apologetic eyes. “Wedded bliss everything you thought it would be?” he teases.

“Sure,” she draws out, eager to change the topic of conversation.

“Why the fuck are you even here this early? You gonna be in my movie and you just haven’t told me yet?” Chris asks, eyebrows furrowing. Scarlett points at Cece by way of explanation, and he just nods in response. “You can come kneel at the front of the stage and listen to everyone in the audience ask me what it’s like getting paid big bucks to throw around a giant Frisbee.”

“As riveting as that sounds, I'll take a rain check.” Scarlett glances around her, most everything blocked by the view of people around them standing with their backs to them. “Remind me how we got to this point?”

“No fuckin’ clue, J. Not a clue.”

At some point, Chris’s team rips her only company away from her – “I thought you were talking to Hemsworth!” “Your name is Chris, too.” “Jesus _fuck_ this is gonna get old.” – and Cece seems to remember why she’s supposed to be there, taking Chris’s seat to give Scarlett the rundown. She doesn’t fully understand why she needs a rundown, really. She’s walking across a stage when Sam announces her name. A reminder to look out at the crowd and smile and wave like she’s Miss America is the extent of what she needs, even if that’s already drilled deep into the bedrock of her brain when she switches into press mode. 

Cece gets up to go talk to someone else with the over-the-shoulder reminder not to wander off. Scarlett wants to laugh. Where is she supposed to wander off _to?_ She’s in a tunnel made of concrete with two directions, and security is probably lining the other side of those black curtain dividers.

More people begin to filter in and out the closer they get to time for the Marvel panel. Scarlett has never been the wallflower in the corner (even if she is wearing shoes that dig into the backs of her heels with every step she takes), so she pulls herself up and starts to mill around, finding some conversation to insert herself into. She says hello to Joss again, gives Sam a hug when she sees him come blowing through the curtains like he means business, and has her conversation with Sam interrupted by none other than her new costar Mark Ruffalo, who is so completely lost in the shuffle that in comparison, she’s steel nerves and fully composed.

She and Mark are making small talk (her least favorite thing in the world) when the curtains part again a few feet over. The motion catches their attention and they both glance in that direction right as another small flurry of people walk in. Scarlett’s just about to look away, and then her eyes steal the slightest glimpse of him.

“Renner!” Mark calls out, and Jeremy barely has time to let the curtains brush his back in their close before he shifts course and strides over to them. It gives Scarlett plenty of time to let her eyes do their wandering. He’s wearing a blue dress shirt, slightly rumpled and the buttons unenthusiastically doing their job at holding the fabric on his frame – the last two are completely undone, which makes Scarlett wonder if he got ready for this event in the backseat of an Escalade. One of his hands is just barely gripping onto the top of a water bottle that’s half empty, him swinging it with every step he takes towards them. She lifts her gaze back up to his face, tanned skin and sparkling blue eyes that smile wider than his lips do. Definitely a better sight than he was in a dark room almost ten years ago and the tuxedo-clad blur he’s been everywhere else she’s seen him over the years.

“What’s up, brother?” Jeremy asks once he’s within arm’s range, him and Mark pulling each other into a half-handshake-half-hug that is apparently the only way of greeting among the male species (Scarlett’s watched Ryan do it so many times she herself could replicate it without falter). “Nice to see ‘ya.”

“If I had any elbow room, I’d be on my knees at your feet,” Mark says when they retract. “You were a genius in The Hurt Locker.”

“Nah,” Jeremy deflects, free hand lifting and settling in the roots of his hair where he sheepishly scratches. “That was the crippling case of food poisoning you saw.”

“You’re full of shit – that Oscar should have been yours.”

“You gonna be the one to tell Jeff Bridges that?”

“I’m the Hulk now. I fear no man.”

Jeremy erupts into laughter, the whine and wheeze like that of someone who’s been smoking for years and is choking on unfiltered air in their diaphragm. It’s still a jovial kind of laugh, enough of one to prick at the very corners of Scarlett’s lips and peel them into a hint of a smirk.

That’s when he makes acknowledgement of her presence, blue eyes checking her out in a way that should probably make her want to stake a fence on her married woman lawn. “You’ve grown up,” he says in conclusion of his observation.

“Don’t be fooled; I’m catering the event.”

His memory is still a sharp knife in the drawer and it slices his lips back into a grin that’s utterly blinding, laughter stirring in his chest as he reaches for her. She meets him in a hug where his arms barely encircle her back in full and her hands barely have time to touch his shirt. His lips brush over the skin on her cheek, the stubble pleasantly scratchy as it drags away. “Hi, Scarlett.”

“Good to see you, Renner.” His smile at her echoes the sentiment. “What brings you here?”

“_I’m_ catering the event,” he answers, his face locked in stoicism. Scarlett rolls her eyes. “Acting’s no longer for me, decided a few weeks ago that I wanna spend all my time at the nerd’s Ground-Zero.”

“Don’t let Joss hear you talk like that; he’ll take that as a sign someone wants him to hop on his nerd stereotyping soapbox and we won’t hear the end of it.” She lets her face fall into a look that screams _come on, stop fronting_. “Seriously.”

“Hawkeye? Ever heard of him?”

“_You_ got the Hawkeye role?” Scarlett asks incredulously, feeling her eyes widen. She’d been called in for a few of the Hawkeye screen-tests to do a chemistry read of sorts several weeks back, and none of them had been him.

Jeremy’s face goes back to stoic, except this time he is genuinely unreadable. “Don’t sound too surprised, sweetheart, I do have a thing or two in the ol’ glovebox still.”

“I’m—I wasn’t—” Leave it to Jeremy Renner to make her feel like she’s back at amateur hour with no idea how to keep her composure glued together. She watches his facial features relax after a split second, the glittering in his eyes still there to let her know that it’s just him poking at her buttons. She exhales out of relief, a nervous smile still lingering around on her face. “I’m glad you got the part. Really.”

“Now you’re just trying to make me feel better.” Scarlett feels the laugh build in her chest, watching as he uncaps his plastic water bottle and takes a long drink. His face scrunches up as a thought comes to him out of thin air, and after swallowing, asks, “Hey, how’s Ryan doing?”

It probably shouldn’t bother her that Jeremy’s trying to take a genuine interest in her life in his approach to small talk, but the fact that Ryan is a facet of her life that has been more nuisance than novelty lately makes it hard to appreciate the gesture. She would _really _prefer not to have to talk about her husband (and coincidentally, her least favorite person), especially when she’s far out of reach from those tiny bottles of alcohol she took with her off of the plane and shoved into Cece’s bag. “Okay,” she replies as indifferently as she can muster. “He’s been in Louisiana filming for the last few months.”

“That other superhero movie, right?” Jeremy snaps his fingers to try and get the title to appear in his brain. Scarlett just nods, because she’s made a pact to herself that she will not waste any more breath on Ryan than absolutely necessary. It comes to Jeremy after a moment, the giant exclamation mark flashing across his face. “Green Lantern. With Blake Lively; she’s fantastic.”

All men are (regrettably) the same. They never notice when a woman turns into ice, when the smile is only on her face because it’s been frozen there in order to save the outside from matching the ugly inferno raging on the inside. Jeremy doesn’t even blink twice at what Scarlett thinks is a terrifyingly passive, “Mm-hm.”

“I just wrapped a movie with her a few months back. Kinda reminds me of you, ‘ya know; you two met yet? You’d be fast friends.”

_Oh, yeah_, Scarlett wants to say. She and Blake would be fast friends alright, with all their supposed similarities: blonde hair, blue eyes, well-endowed, dry senses of humor, full-time actors, carrying a candle for the same man. Scarlett knows exactly why she’s never met Blake before, and it’s because Ryan’s too much of a chicken shit to keep both of his bed buddies in the same time zone. Jeremy’s not the only person that thinks Blake’s got some kind of semblance to Scarlett. Her husband’s apparently thought the same for months now as he holes out in New Orleans, and clearly, he likes the reboot much better than the original.

She keeps her opinions to herself, because the last thing she needs to do is come across as the scorned wife in front of her new costars, one of whom just doesn’t know when to take a hint and stop talking, and the other who is a completely innocent bystander that’s just trying to enjoy what he can of his debut appearance as the Hulk.

Except Mark has somehow slipped away and it’s just her, Jeremy, and the unwelcome third party of her love life. 

_Whatever_, she thinks – the same thought she’s had for months now whenever it comes to Ryan Reynolds and his bullshit.

“When did you find out that you’d gotten Hawkeye?” she asks, desperate to grab the wheel and turn their conversation around before it wrecks without hope of salvaging.

Jeremy’s hand rubs at the back of his neck. “Not long ago. Ink probably isn’t even dry on the page yet. They’re gonna pull me for a cameo in Thor and then I’ll be in the full swing for Avengers.”

“You excited to get out there and let the fanboys sink their teeth into you?”

“Hate to break it to you, but I’m probably not gonna be the one they’ll have their eyes on.”

“Lucky me,” Scarlett sings unenthusiastically.

Jeremy then extends the plastic bottle to her in offering, and her eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Shot of courage for ‘ya,” he expounds.

She hesitantly takes the water bottle from him, unscrewing the cap and bringing it up to her lips. Water isn’t what touches her tongue when she takes a test sip. It’s pure vodka and it kicks her in the teeth. Scarlett can handle her liquor easily but the surprise is what nails her, coughing as it goes down her throat and leaves a burn for memory. Jeremy just grins at her as she quickly covers her mouth with her fist, trying to regulate the cough so no one around them gets any ideas.

He looks all too smug with himself when their eyes meet, hers wide in surprise. “You’re bad,” she hisses at him, inflating her scandalized reaction just for kicks.

The water bottle gets capped and handed back off to him, Jeremy’s fingers dragging against hers in the pass that she can’t distinguish a motive for. “Hasn’t killed me yet, doll.”

“Better hope you don’t fall off the stage when they call your name.”

“I can hold my liquor with no problem, sweetheart – they wouldn’t know I was drunk unless they kissed me on the mouth and tasted it.”

Commotion takes that moment to begin swirling around them and sucking them away. Cece materializes from some unknown corner and carts Scarlett off; apparently, it’s time and they all need to get ushered to the _real_ backstage wings and put in order the same way it’s been written on Sam’s index card of helpfulness. She doesn’t get to say goodbye to Jeremy – again, she notices – as Cece keeps her walking in double time near the front of the pack.

They’re let in a back door and swallowed by the darkness of backstage. Instinctively, she reaches for Cece’s hand to help her weave through the mass of bodies that are all crowding up the wings without falling on her face. Up on stage, Feige is speaking and there’s a hum out in the crowd.

All of the lights suddenly get cut and it’s like lightning has struck in the middle of the floor. Sam’s voice starts reverberating over the loudspeakers at such a pitch that the floor is vibrating under the soles of Scarlett’s shoes, the crowd steadily getting louder and louder before they erupt into cheers in applause.

Her heart hammers away in the pit of her stomach, that single taste of Jeremy’s vodka now buzzing through her bloodstream as she tries to keep her breathing even. The energy is electric as the lights come back up and Sam takes the stage, starting the roster introductions. Clark Gregg is first, and then, for reasons unbeknownst to her, is Scarlett. Cece pushes her forward in her stride out onto the stage, the flash of digital cameras and applause temporarily stunning her brain even if she is on autopilot. She starts walking behind the table and everyone standing on the opposite end of the stage is shaking their head, pointing to where Clark’s standing in _front_ of it. She shrugs – Cece’s grinding her teeth backstage, she’s sure – and skirts back around, keeping her smile up and remembering to look out into the sea of people for at least a split second. She’s not sure she’s seen so many people crammed into a single room before, all of them buzzing with excitement over the exact same thing.

Clark gives her a kiss on the cheek when she finally reaches him, the two of them turning on their heels to watch and welcome everyone else to the stage. Chris Hemsworth is first, and then Chris Evans (she agrees with his statement earlier, it _is_ going to get old having two of them around), and finally Robert, who by far receives the best reaction from the crowd. He eats it up because he knows he’s their king in the same way the acknowledge him as such, and the rest of them on stage just exchange knowing smiles and applaud with everyone else.

In the time it’s taken Robert to walk from one end of the stage to the podium, he’s crafted some clever speech about ambitious films and how Marvel is redefining ambitious films by taking every superhero they have and featuring all of them in the same film. Everyone in the room hangs off of his every last syllable, reacting in cheers and applause and bursts of photos that create a blinding speck of light in the black of the room every time he finishes a statement. He brings out Jeremy first, then Mark, and closes it out with Joss. Joss speaks for a moment, somewhat awkward (which the fans adore just as much as they do Robert’s swagger) and then lets the room flood with every live wire that everyone’s vocal cords have evolved to.

They wrap the panel with what feels like a million photos on stage for the press in the room, all of them in a line with their arms interlocked around each other as they look in every possible direction for a cluster of camera flashes. For a brief moment, they all crowd on stage and talk like they’re not on a stage in front of thousands of people who have every eye trained on them. Scarlett makes fun of Chris’s light wash jeans and how he clearly didn’t get the memo the rest of them did, laughing when he pouts and pretends to shove her off the stage. Robert keeps flinging both arms over his heads with his fingers bent down into his trademark ‘rock-n’-roll’ gesture, and Joss attempts to herd them like cattle off of the stage to utterly no avail. (She vaguely wonders if he has any clue what he has signed up for.)

Exhilaration is her new gravity; it fills her up until it overflows and her brain has to leave her body, watching her flit around on stage with slightly trembling hands as she hugs everyone and lets her legs carry her back into the wings of the stage.

After that, she’s done. There is adrenaline still pumping in her system but she’s not walking the press line, hanging around to pop a bottle of champagne, or drive back to the Marvel offices where work awaits her. She’s getting in a car, heading to the San Diego airport, and going back to the exact place she came from, which almost feels like a waste for whatever kind of secondhand high she’s on. Her system tells her a good fuck would spend it well and level her back down, but the divorce diary she’s keeping tells her that is only asking to bring a round of ammunition to a knife fight.

Cece walks like a woman on a mission through the tunnels back towards the service elevator, and it’s all Scarlett can do to keep up with her. She barely notices the new spot of heat on her hip until she feels a pair of fingers curl into the belt loop on her jeans and tug her into a warm mass. When she glances over her shoulder, it’s Jeremy, his arm slung around her waist and tucking him into her side.

“Hey, Hawkeye,” she teases him as they step into the elevator. Scarlett can feel Cece’s eyes burn into her, a thousand different versions of _what the fuck_ scrolling in her irises that Scarlett opts to ignore, especially after Jeremy pulls his hand back to where it belongs.

“Hey, Widow.”

“Neither of us were right,” Scarlett says under her breath as the service elevator groans to life. Jeremy turns his head to look at her, single eyebrow shifted upwards on his face the prompt for her to continue. “Robert was the one they were lusting after.”

Jeremy fills the entire service elevator with his laughter, even when he buries his face into her shoulder to try and keep quiet. It warms every inch of her up. 

At either end of the garage they make their way into, the afternoon sun is blazing and sending rays of light scattering in. Cars are already waiting for them, security doubled from what it was when she’d arrived. Cece motions for Scarlett to follow along, and she doesn’t get far before there’s a tug on her hand.

“You staying in town?” Jeremy asks when she turns around, swinging their now-linked hands back and forth. “Ditch your people, we’ll go out and get drunk. Celebrate our relevancy.”

She shakes her head. “Got a plane waiting for me,” she responds somewhat dejectedly. Jeremy frowns a little, but he doesn’t make any kind of argument to convince her further.

“Scarlett!” Cece calls, already waiting next to the passenger door of their getaway car. “Come on. Time to go.”

She glances back at Jeremy, taking a tentative step away from him with the apology splashed over her face. “I guess I’ll see you soon?” he asks, still holding her hand and forcing her to extend her arm out all the way to keep them connected. There’s a tiny part of her (that she figures is the tidal wave of endorphins) itching to give in and let him take her with him, wherever in the world he could possibly want to go. 

“You know it,” she answers with a coy smile.

Jeremy lifts her arm up, bringing her hand closer so he can drop his head and easily brush a kiss over her knuckles. Blue eyes meet hers carefully, and Scarlett’s not sure why her heart suddenly feels like a set of rotor blades stirring to life in her ribcage. It’s been so long since she’s had anyone look at her like that, treat her like she’s not another empty wall in the room, and maybe it’s just her selfish, needy desires to feel like she matters to somebody swimming there behind her eyes and painting him golden in front of her. He lets her hand fall as he straightens his spine, never breaking their braided line of sight. “’Til then, sweetheart.”


	3. bad bad boy, shiny toy with a price

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i???????????? i really don't know what else to say other than i love you guys 8000. for those who were curious: [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XgXUUaw0wQw) is where i got "wanna be on top" in the last chapter! i only wish i could take credit for that line between those two morons, but alas. i also would like to say that up until this point in time, my favorite secondary character (if not my favorite character period) to write in rennerson fics was cevans. however, he has officially been dethroned by none other than queen valerie cearley. we do not deserve that woman. 
> 
> if you have a spare second or two after you finish reading, leave a lil comment on your way out — the beauty of a "canon compliant" fic is that we're following a somewhat universally understood timeline and if there are things you want to see in future chapters, be it plot points or actual events n shit, i'm always open to suggestions!! after all, this is as much y'all's baby as it is mine. chapter title is from taylor swift's 'cruel summer' which is coincidentally the song that inspired this story and accurately sums up the entire first act of this fic. on the off-chance that i am not at literal war with the wifi, i'm always lurking around twitter @emswifts and tumblr @nvtasha where i truly find joy in seeing when people put together that the clown over there is the clown that writes all these a/ns. happy reading xx

Scarlett starts 2011 as a technically single woman, so she does what any technically single woman in her position would do: she gets her people to wrestle her invites to everything during award season that can be managed, fields calls from designers who are tripping over themselves to get her in one of their dresses, and shows up on the red carpet looking like Ryan Reynolds’s worst goddamn nightmare.

She’s living life like she got away with the pre-meditated murder of her marriage because that’s the only way she knows to stay afloat. She didn’t _really_ want this, but she did, so she figures finding out that the cinderblock a divorce has chained around her neck has the same weight as a diamond necklace worth a couple million dollars is a step in the right direction. She hopes so, anyways.

Cece and Marcel not only put enough whispers in ears to swing her a seat at the Oscars, but they nab her a spot as presenter. She’s learned it’s with Matthew McConaughey, who certainly won’t look terrible on her arm. Appearances are deceiving and, in this case, they’re her best weapon.

Scarlett’s not typically a familiar face at award shows; most of the films she does are _too_ indie to be considered and therefore garner an invite, so it’s regarded as a special occasion when she does go – it’s treated like such, too. Her team books her a suite at the Hollywood Roosevelt for the weekend of the show; if she squints hard enough, it looks like a vacation that she will gladly take seeing as how she’s about to dedicate the rest of her year to being slammed by work.

She sleeps in on Sunday morning, woken up only by the sunlight filtering in through the semi-sheer curtains. The hotel-issued alarm clock greets her back to reality, 8:41AM in blinking red when she rolls over and stretches out her spine so thoroughly that she can hear the creaks and pops.

She revels in the fact this is the quietest her life has been in over a year.

For the most part, the morning is entirely hers; her agent, manager, and Marcel sent the timetable via email at varying hours of the night that she gave a brief skim. Even though award show days never have the word ‘lazy’ tacked on as a descriptor without a negating phrase in front of it, they typically don’t take very much out of her – considering she’s taking on the angle of a vacation, the mindlessness of the award show routine will only be in full force. Sit still, do as the person working on or with her says, occasionally smile and display gratitude. All things she can do – and has previously done – in her sleep.

She’s not the type to waste away the day in bed even if she is left to her own devices with not much else to do. She throws the duvet back and shuffles into the bathroom to pull herself into some state of togetherness while the hollow grumbling in her pit of a stomach calls her towards breakfast. The convenience of the Roosevelt in relation to the Oscars in particular is a feat she isn’t alone in liking; the people who run the hotel tend to keep rooms available on Oscar weekend so they can book to big names and rake in the cash (since celebrities have an affinity for the a la carte amenities) and they’re incredibly mindful of the fact most of their guests are well-known in the public. It’s because of this that she doesn’t have to worry about walking out of her room without a security guard anchored to her hip. It’s a rare moment in which she gets to feel like anything but a zoo animal in a cage.

Besides, in her current state – her stylists would absolutely murder her if she did anything to fuck up her blank canvas appearances – no one would believe a Scarlett Johansson sighting even with the photographic evidence to boot.

Regardless, Scarlett shuffles down to the lobby with the hood on her NYU sweatshirt up, her hands deep in the front pocket as they absently twirl around the keycard while getting in line to look at the breakfast menu in the in-hotel café. There aren’t very many people populating it at this hour; she figures most of her colleagues are having breakfast called up to their rooms, on the working assumption that they’re already awake and starting their glam processes. She keeps her order safe, standard chai latte that gets charged up to the room (conveniently attached to someone on her team’s credit card).

Because half of Hollywood tends to cluster and stay at the same hotels as one another, it never comes as a surprise to bump into a member of someone’s entourage, if not that very someone themselves. Usually it’s sharing the elevator on the way down to the garages where their respective cars await.

She’s not expecting to bump into Jeremy Renner as she blows on her steaming latte and heads for the table where creamer and sugar are, but she does, and when he lays eyes on her, it’s like someone remembered to turn on the electricity in Times Square.

“Scarlett?” he asks, mostly for confirmation’s sake. She lifts her head slightly at the sound of her name and his smile grows wider than his face.

“Hey, you,” she greets, her voice still somewhat mussed by sleep (she’s still pre-caffeine and not fully a member of the awake and thriving yet) as she slings an arm around his neck for a quick hug.

“Didn’t expect to bump into you.” It’s an innocent statement that pricks her interest slightly, eyebrows furrowing together while she sets her cup down on the table, de-lidding it and setting it aside in her reach for the sugar. “Didn’t think you’d bother showing at this stuff if you weren’t up for anything.”

“I’m never up for anything,” she says with a bemused scoff. “Besides, we can’t all be Best Actor nominees.” When she looks away from the three-packet stream of sugar pouring into her cup, the golden daylight streaming in through the windows across the room only accentuates the flush creeping up his neck and into the apples of his cheeks. “Congrats on that, by the way.”

“Ah, thanks, sweetheart.” This is the second year in a row that he’s gotten a nomination, and she’s sure it’s as well-deserved now as it was last time. She didn’t watch _The Town_ the same way she had _The Hurt Locker _when it came voting time, for reasons that she felt were most justified.

She tells him that too – that she didn’t exactly see it – and his face shifts into an exaggerated pout. “Oh, what, scared you’ll fall in love with me when you see me on screen?”

“I’ll give you a hint,” Scarlett says cheerfully as she stirs her coffee. “Its first name starts with a B.”

“Oh.” Oh, indeed.

Talking about her being divorced is a thing that makes most people uncomfortable even if she’s not uncomfortable with her reality in the slightest. She lets it go, because she doesn’t like the weird pitying sort of look that falls over people’s faces when she makes mention of it – kind of like the look Jeremy’s currently giving her. “What brings you down here?” Scarlett hums as she throws her stirrer in the trash.

Jeremy rolls his eyes. “My girls upstairs don’t know what they want for breakfast; I told them while they figured it out, I was going to take my for-sureness downstairs and get my own.”

There’s no shock to his statement, even if a small piece of her would like elaboration – most actors are playboys. The ones she’s friends with are, anyways. She’s yet to figure out how that’s happened, where the mutual magnetism lies and why those people make for the best friends she has. Maybe it’s just the natural compatibility there: the playboy and the bombshell, fated into being a perfect pair.

Maybe it’s because of that fated bullshit that they see each other in the shades and hues that the stereotypes don’t bother giving them and they band together over the general understanding that they’re real human beings behind the labels of a small fraction of a personality trait. Because of that, Jeremy Renner having a bunch of girls running around in his hotel room on the morning of the Oscars (though it’s expected) gets no judgment from her. Sex is a good way to ride the wave of the jitters.

It’s a good thing she doesn’t plan to ask for further clarification, because someone behind the counter calls out a meaningless number and the name ‘Cearley’, at which Jeremy tears away from her. Her eyebrows meet in the middle at the action, watching him saunter over to take a coffee cup and the to-go back with the hotel’s logo emblazoned on the side. “Cearley?” she asks when he returns over to the side table.

“You think I’m gonna have them call out Renner on today of all days?” he retorts back, somewhat amused.

“I gave them Johansson,” Scarlett points out.

“You just like to cause a scene, have everyone’s attention,” he teases dryly, shoveling a handful of napkins in the bag around the sticker that’s keeping the bag sealed.

“Or I just like to not live my life in fear.”

Jeremy barks out a laugh. “I’d bet that you’ve got the bigger balls between the two of us, no doubt.” Scarlett presses her lips into a thin smile that is so volumized it forces her eyes into a squint, hand finding her coffee cup lid once again and placing it back on the cup with a satisfying thud. “You headed back up to get started on your glam-ification process?”

Scarlett shakes her head, the hood slipping off of her head with the gesture and bunching up around her neck. “My team gave me the morning to myself. Apparently, this,” she gestures towards where her hair now stops, fingers snapping in a motion meant to imitate scissors, “Takes off a solid hour or two.”

“I like the short hair on you,” he comments as his eyes sweep over her, and she smiles appreciatively. “If you don’t have anything else to do, you should come up to the suite and hang out for a little bit.” He pauses, before adding, “Only if you want to, that is.”

She knows how other women perceive her, especially when she’s around under the invitation of a man, and she strongly suspects Jeremy’s lady friends will throw the hotel-issue Holy Bible at his head and insist he pray for common sense once he strolls in with her as company. Regardless, she finds herself agreeing to his proposition and walking in step with him back to the elevator.

They’re going to be working together sooner rather than later; production on _Avengers_ is set to start in the spring and has most of her year stiffly roped off between shoots and intense training. She’s been on a diet and workout regimen since early January for preparation (she can’t tell if the diet is the reason for lost weight or if that’s just result of the toll of the Ryan debacle, and the workouts have been a phenomenal stress reliever). Filming has possibly been the one thing she’s looking forward to in the midst of everything. She is in need of a thorough distraction – a change of scenery, an entirely different routine, and a new leaf of company (save for Chris, but she’s learned by now she will never be rid of him even if she wants to be) ought to do the trick.

Jeremy’s room is on the ninth floor, only one floor beneath hers. She leans up against the wall in the hallway while he fishes around in his jean pockets to find his key, watching on as he less-than-smoothly works it in the slot a few times until the little light turns green and the handle gives way under his hand. “After you,” he says, holding the door open for her with his entire body.

Unlike her suite, peace is nowhere to be found. The rugs do little in masking the sounds of footsteps throughout the suite, faint sounds of music drifting from the heart of the room it’s playing in and bleeding through the walls with a thrumming sort of energy that Scarlett can taste on her tongue. This might be her idea of a vacation, but in here, it feels like award show day. In here, she feels strangely out of place and the only hope of finding assimilation rests with her position in relation to Jeremy.

“What in the fuck,” he swears under his breath as he lets the door clock to a close behind him, following Scarlett into the openness of the living area. He takes a few steps past her, halfway into the kitchenette when he stops to observe the rolling cart she’s somehow missed sight of upon her own entrance. Jeremy throws his own food down on the coffee table in front of the couch, using his newly-freed hands to peek under the lids of several of the platters and plates that litter the surface of the cart. When he speaks again, his voice echoes out through the suite. “Kymmy, are you kidding me?”

A few seconds later a blonde comes flouncing into the living room from somewhere beyond, wearing one of the hotel’s complimentary bath robes and a pair of slippers. “What?” she asks Jeremy innocently, one hand settling on her hip. She doesn’t seem to take any notice of Scarlett standing only a few feet in front of Jeremy. She might as well be another piece of furniture.

Jeremy gives a sweeping gesture over the cart for emphasis. “Where did all of this come from?”

The blonde’s eyes fall to where his hand is only for a split second before lifting back up to Jeremy. “We ordered room service.”

“I can see that.” Jeremy drops the lid back over its respective plate, giving her a pointed look. “When I left, you guys weren’t able to make up your minds.”

“Yeah, well…we made them up.”

“The second I walked out the door, I’m sure,” Jeremy mutters in addendum.

“Semantics, Jer.”

“You just don’t want me to see you racking up a hundred-dollar bill for some fuckin’ toast.”

The blonde shakes her head, a bemused grin spreading over her lips. “You’ll see it soon enough on your credit card statement.”

Jeremy flops back on the couch that Scarlett is still standing awkwardly in front of (like she’s got no idea what to do with herself), sinking back into the fabric of the cushions and reaching for his coffee. “Damn straight.”

“Thank you,” the blonde sings disarmingly. “Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah. You too, sis.”

_Sis._

Even if Jeremy’s reciprocation of love is barely convincing, there’s no doubt in swaying her towards the other thing. She _had_ looked a little bit old for what Scarlett would have pegged as Jeremy’s type – he’s in his thirties himself, no way he’s shopping around in his age range. And, of course, now that the word ‘sis’ is bouncing around in her skull, she can start to pick up on the clues of resemblance: the nose, the smile, the mischievous glint in her eyes as she beams at her brother before flouncing out of the room to wherever she’d been previous.

Knowing that Jeremy’s aforementioned girls are of the family member variety makes Scarlett feel much more at ease, comfortable enough to sit down on the couch next to him and not feel like someone might come in later and be tempted to fling a mimosa at her over it.

“Your sister seems interesting,” Scarlett observes, using the term liberally. Jeremy just scoffs into his cup.

“One way to put it. She’s got nothing on Nicky though.” She must have a look of confusion scrawled on her face, because Jeremy gives a stiff nod. “My other sister.”

Scarlett folds both of her legs underneath her, curling up somewhat like a cat as she makes herself right at home. “How many sisters do you have?”

“Just the two of ‘em – that I know of, anyways. I’ve got a lot of half siblings running around.”

“I’ve got one of those,” Scarlett muses, balancing her coffee cup on her knee as her head falls against the couch cushion. “Half-siblings.”

“It’s always fun when your parents are whores,” Jeremy agrees dryly. She’s so taken by surprise with his brazen comment that the laugh lodges forcefully in her throat and she spends the next moment of her life trying to recover from the choking. All it does is amuse Jeremy.

“That’s an interesting lens to look from,” she says once her voice is back to an operational standard.

“Well, when you can’t ignore it…”

Scarlett tips her cup in his direction as her touché, and he smiles back in acknowledgement.

“So you make Oscar weekend a family affair?”

“Why not?” Jeremy shrugs. “They love this kinda stuff; might as well see someone enjoy it. I like pampering them when I can. Seems like a good way to thank ‘em for putting up with how much of a pain in the ass I’ve been over the years.”

“That’s sweet.”

His face falls into a pout. “I’m not sweet.”

“Like high fructose corn syrup,” Scarlett insists, smirking as she reaches over and squeezes his arm. He does give off the impression of a hard candy, and she gets the feeling if she cracked him open, he’d have a completely liquidous center. “You nervous?”

“About?”

Scarlett rests her chin down on the lid of her coffee cup after taking a long drink from it. “The show tonight.”

Jeremy’s face twists up. “Nah. What’s there to be nervous about?”

“Lots of things,” Scarlett says solemnly. “Choking on a good luck shot backstage. Forgetting your name when you get introduced to someone or forgetting who _they_ are. Falling on your ass walking up the stairs to accept your award.” He rolls his eyes, cuing her to stop her list short.

“People who worry about that kinda shit don’t have their priorities in check.” Both of her eyebrows lift up into her hairline, and Jeremy waves a hand in blasé dismissal. “Besides, I don’t expect to win anything.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“I don’t. Hurt Locker swept last year, having luck like that two years running is basically unheard of.”

“You didn’t win Best Actor last year, though.”

Jeremy’s face falls. “Yes, and I’m still nursing those deep, deep cuts a whole year later,” he says sarcastically, just barely dodging her backhanded nudge. “It’s still the same thing, same expired luck.”

“It’s an entirely different award.”

“It’s still me.”

“Well,” Scarlett says somewhat haughtily, raising her coffee cup back up to her lips. “Maybe you’ll prove them all wrong.”

“_You_ wouldn’t know if my performance was worthy. You didn’t watch my movie,” he teases her, nudging her back when he reaches for his to-go bag on the coffee table.

“Hey, don’t make me feel bad about that. I’m still nursing that deep, deep cut.”

With the simple slide of his finger he slices open the sticker keeping his bag closed, pulling containers out and setting them out in front of him. He shoves the plastic wrapping around the fork down to set it free, reaching back for the smaller of the containers and popping the lid off. “You like raspberries?” he asks, spearing through one with the fork and holding it out towards her.

“You don’t?”

He shrugs. “What, I can’t offer the lady a piece of fruit?”

“Thank you,” she says over-exaggeratedly, removing it from the tines of his fork and popping the berry into her mouth.

“You like mangoes too?” He points down into what she guesses is nothing more than a glorified fruit cup with the fork.

“What’d you do, order the aphrodisiac fruit salad?”

“It’s the tropical fruit salad, thank you. And raspberries aren’t aphrodisiacs.”

Scarlett leans forward, glancing down into the cup. “Yeah, but mango, pineapple and papaya are.”

“I’ll leave your name change suggestion in my TripAdvisor review,” Jeremy says, his fork impaling another raspberry before it gets offered up to her.

“Any reason you ordered a tropical fruit salad in February?” she asks.

“’Cause I wanted to,” he explains succinctly. He then swivels around, motioning back towards the rolling cart piled high with still untouched food. “And if you want anything over there, have at it.”

“I’d rather your sister not kill me today, the Academy won’t be happy to have to find a replacement presenter on that short of notice,” Scarlett says quickly.

Jeremy makes a face. “They ordered up the whole kitchen, I don’t think they’ll miss a waffle or two in the midst of all that shit.” He turns back around, sinking further into the couch cushions. “You’re presenting tonight?”

She nods. “Can’t remember what. Something that I usually never pay attention to.”

“Shame,” Jeremy whispers, feigning his scandalization.

She edges a little closer on the couch to him, foregoing his whole offering-on-a-plastic-fork ritual and reaching straight into his cup for a piece of mango. “Sound, I think,” she says after her fingers leave her mouth, snapping them together. She straightens up her spine, lifting her chin and extending her arm gracefully before she speaks again, this time drawing out the word as melodically as she can manage without outright singing to him. “Sound.”

“I expect you to do it _exactly_ like that tonight.”

“If the magic teleprompter doesn’t say so, then I regret to inform you there will be no such performance.”

“Bummer.”

The conversation between them flows easily, like they’ve been friends for years instead of just mere acquaintances who have the habit of bumping into one another whenever the stars align accordingly. Time melts all the way down to the bottom of her coffee cup where crystals of sugar sit undissolved; if she didn’t know any better, she’d think her whole purpose for being in LA and at the Roosevelt was to spend time with him.

“You know what color your dress is gonna be tonight?” Jeremy asks as he kicks his ankles up and props them onto the coffee table.

“No clue,” she replies. “Nicole hasn’t brought anything over yet. She did want me to make sure I had matching underwear on hand, though…” Jeremy snickers, and she turns her stare laser-sharp. “Why do you ask?”

“Gotta know what color to look for at the show later.”

“You gonna keep an eye out or somethin’?” she jokes.

“Keep it up and I’ll pretend I don’t even know who you are.” Scarlett lets out a scoff of indignation at his suggestion, her hand brushing over the cavity of her chest in a taken aback manner.

“I’ll make you forget your own damn name,” she avows.

Jeremy opens his mouth to retaliate, she’s sure, but he’s swiftly cut off by the sudden intrusion of someone else in one of those fluffy white bathrobes – she’s _really_ going to have to go back to her room and find hers, because goddamn do they look like clouds – walking into the room.

“I’m telling you, Marissa, that is not—Jesus _Christ!_” She stops dead in her tracks upon sight of Scarlett and Jeremy sitting on the couch, her hand resting over her heart as if it’ll help kickstart its beat back to a normal rhythm.

“If you insist, but you were the one who named me Jeremy in the first place,” Jeremy says cheekily, and the woman scowls.

It clicks for Scarlett that this must be his mother, and if looks could kill, the same person who brought him into the world would also be the same one to take him out of it. “Didn’t even know you were back in the room,” she mutters, falling back into step as she continues walking towards them.

“Who did you think Kym was in here talking to? Herself?”

“Your sister would talk the paint off of a wall,” she argues, stopping once she reaches the breakfast cart. Her sights quickly shift from Jeremy over to Scarlett, eyes narrowing. “And of course you decide to bring up company when I’m in my damn _bathrobe. _Who the hell raised you? Sure wasn’t me.”

“I’m all you, momma,” Jeremy says proudly, and his mother shakes her head.

When she speaks, she talks directly to Scarlett, features softening. “I’m so sorry for my smartass of a son.” She quickly looks back over at Jeremy. “Am I allowed to introduce myself to this one?”

Jeremy turns a magnificent shade of red, coughing as his coffee goes down his windpipe. It piques Scarlett’s curiosity – apparently, Jeremy’s not the type to arrange meetings between his mother and anyone of the female variety that _isn’t_ related to him by blood or marriage. “Scarlett,” he says in a still scratchy voice by way of introduction, motioning back towards the woman in the bathrobe who is now balancing one of the platters off the breakfast cart in her hand. “My mother.”

“I’m Valerie. Nice to meet you, er—” Valerie glances down at what she’s wearing before scowling back over at Jeremy. “Well, I’m a lot nicer to meet when I’m not wearing a bathrobe, but _Jeremy didn’t say we were inviting people in off the street—”_

“Oh, momma, relax. It’s not like she’s gonna sell a photo of you to the paparazzi.” Jeremy looks over at Scarlett, tilting his head to the side. “Now that I am apparently famous, my mother’s biggest fear is winding up in People Magazine looking like a hag.”

Valerie walks by Jeremy at that exact moment, taking the rolled up linen napkin that she’s clutched in her opposite hand and letting it unfurl as she hits him on the head with it. “Those were _your_ words!”

“Company!” she hisses, putting an apologetic smile back on her face for Scarlett’s sake. “There’s no other Hollywood hotshot you’d rather spend your time with, Scarlett?”

For a moment, Scarlett is at a total loss for words. It takes a second or two to find the right expression, right infliction in her voice, right persona to step in – charming people has never been complicated for her, but different people are charmed by different things and it takes a cue or two to figure out what seals the deal for them. “He and I are going to be spending a lot of time together this year anyways for Avengers.”

“Oh!” Valerie’s face lights up in recognition. “Sure you didn’t want to wait, only be stuck with him when you absolutely had to?” She slips Scarlett a quick wink, and Scarlett begins to find the groove, smiling back.

“You make it sound like I’m a disease, mother.”

“Honey, some people think falling in love’s a disease. Everything’s relative.”

“I’m your son, you’re supposed to think I’m fantastic all the time,” Jeremy whines.

“Only on the days when you supply me with complimentary bathrobes and fancy hotel brunch.” Valerie drapes the linen napkin over her arm, turning her focus back to Scarlett. “Are you going to the Oscars tonight?”

“I am,” Scarlett nods.

“Well, maybe I’ll make a better impression when I’m not in this bathrobe.”

“It looks like a very luxurious bathrobe,” Scarlett points out.

Valerie glances over at Jeremy. “I like this one. Please keep her around.” Jeremy sinks deeper into the couch cushion, obstructing his face with his coffee cup. “Maybe we’ll see you later?”

“Yeah, maybe!” The shift in her voice feels slightly fake, but if Valerie notices it, it doesn’t bother her enough to call Scarlett on it. Instead she smiles warmly, her parting gift as she shuffles back towards the bedroom where Scarlett guesses everyone is getting ready.

“I love your mom,” she informs Jeremy once Valerie is out of earshot.

“She’s one of a kind, that’s for sure.”

In the pocket of her sweatshirt, her phone begins to buzz. It’s a reminder that there is a word beyond the bubble of this hotel room, a strict schedule that she has to adhere to that doesn’t have socializing penciled in. She fumbles with it, pulling it out of the pocket just enough so she can get a view of the screen.

“That’d be my one of a kind publicist,” Scarlett muses. “Time to go get beautiful.”

“Like you aren’t already,” Jeremy scoffs, leaning forward and emptying everything in his hands onto the coffee table.

“It takes a lot of blood, sweat and tears to make Scarlett Johansson look like Scarlett Johansson, you know.”

“You’re so full of shit it’s not even funny.” They both slowly stand up – Scarlett doesn’t really want to leave and he must not want her to hurry along, either – shuffling towards the door in the slightest of footsteps. “I’ll try and find you in the theater?”

Scarlett’s hand finds the door handle and hovers over it. “Yeah.”

“I’ll be the one in the tux,” he offers, and she can’t help but to crack a smile.

“Good luck tonight,” she wishes him just in case she doesn’t happen to find him, her other hand brushing over his shoulder cap and giving it a weak squeeze of affirmation.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” She opens the door, stepping backwards over the threshold as she gives one last weak parting wave. The last thing she sees before she releases the door to fall back into frame is Jeremy’s smile.

All peace is abandoned in her suite when she returns. Marcel has acquired a key somehow (it’s probably due to the hotel room being in his name) and in her absence, opened the doors wide to her stylist and hair and makeup artists and Cece, who is doing her time for today by scrounging up take-out menus from the luxury of the couch. The second she steps into the room she’s routed directly into a chair where someone can begin work on her, turning her from a blank canvas to the camera’s idea of a movie star.

She makes them pause long enough for her to put on that complimentary bathrobe.

Cece orders them Italian for lunch – it doesn’t follow Scarlett’s Marvel diet by any means, and there’s a flickering chandelier of a thought that maybe she shouldn’t go there before having to squeeze in a dress that will most likely be form fitting, but she balances a plate of pasta in her lap while Duffy blow dries her hair. “You still want to do what we talked about, darling?” he asks her reflection in the mirror for what feels like the umpteenth time in the last two hours, their eyes meeting in the glass.

She shrugs half-heartedly, mouth full of shrimp. “What do you think?”

“Honey, there’s lots of things I think. I think that you should listen to me and not dye this beautiful blonde head of yours red, but that’s apparently already carved in stone.” In the background, Cece gives a confirmatory nod.

“I don’t know,” Scarlett sighs. Her mind drifts a place it probably shouldn’t: Ryan. Moves and countermoves, and everything she does these days is a countermove to try and strike him back. “I don’t know if I’m feeling the whole fru-fru-fru shit. I kinda want something different. Something that no one on the carpet’s going to do.”

“Well, no one would go on the carpet with a wet head,” Duffy comments, and Scarlett rolls her eyes.

“You know what I mean.”

“Sure I do.” Duffy points towards the rack of dresses that Nicole has left in the corner of the room with his hairdryer. “You know which dress you’re gonna wear yet?”

She’s got the words _I don’t know_ – her three new favorite words of the day, apparently – on the tip of her tongue, a knock on the door stealing them away from her. Cece’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, setting aside her plate of pasta and rising up from the couch to answer it. Duffy sends blonde hair in a flurry around her eyes with the hairdryer, Scarlett losing sight of everything unfolding around her until Duffy switches the dryer off.

Cece’s standing next to her, holding a bucket of ice that has a bottle of champagne sticking out of it. “Looks like you’ve got an admirer,” she says.

She passes over a tiny card, Scarlett’s eyes whirling over the words printed on the other side.

_ **Have a good night tonight. – J** _

_ **PS: Make it an easy color.** _

“J? Who’s J?” Cece asks, like the helicopter parent she’s destined to be once she has children of her own. “And what does he want you to make an easy color?”

Scarlett feels the faint smile curl over her lips, lifting her eyes up to the mirror where the reflection of the dress rack peeks out in the distance. “Duff, scrap the plans. Have your dirty way with me. Do whatever the hell you want, as long as it’s not a beehive.”

In the mirror, Duffy breaks out into a grin like it’s Christmas morning. “Sweetheart, I’ve never loved you more.”

Duffy curls her hair into a mess of unkempt waves that are absolutely Oscar frowned-upon (which is why she loves them so much), Gianpaolo does her makeup in shades of copper and bronze, and she goes for the only dress on the rack that’s got color in it: a deep pink lace Dolce and Gabbana with a keyhole back. She looks like everything she wouldn’t, and when she gets a full glimpse of herself in the mirror before they’re set to leave, she feels the tiny surge of pride swell in her chest. For a divorced twenty-something, she’s never looked better.

It’s better than sitting in the floor of the shower with cold water dripping over her back.

Red carpets, at this point in her career, are fine-tuned into a science. All she has to do is walk and smile, maybe answer a question or two – very little brain power is required of her any more now that it’s mostly muscle memory she’s operating on. She _also _might have poured the champagne Jeremy sent up to her suite with a heavy hand for herself, but the Academy Awards are a celebration (of something)_. _It’s probably offensive to show up not already buzzed.

“You clean up nice,” Scarlett teases Joe on the car ride over to the drop-off for the event. Usually whenever she sees Joe, he’s wearing the same shirt and a different pair of jeans. “They’re all going to think we’re fucking.”

Joe’s face twists up in disgust. “Oh, god, Johansson, you just _had_ to go there.”

She laughs, even if it’s not really all that funny – her joke is one that’s unfortunately grounded in full reality. The Daily Mail and TMZ and every other news outlet that can scrape up a photo will assume that Joe is her rebound and that she’s dragged him out into the limelight as an _aha_ against Ryan. She knows that’s why Marcel suggested it to the team in the first place, encouraged her to ask Joe. Marcel knows that deep down Scarlett’s that fucking petty but she’s still at the stage where behind closed doors, she’s wallowing about everything and hasn’t yet found the gusto within herself to give the middle finger unprompted. “Hey, there are worse people to be rumored that you’re fucking. At least I’m pretty.”

“You’re not my type,” Joe bites back.

“Well, tonight I am.”

Joe, at this point in their working relationship, is something like a sibling to her. It’s why she agreed with Marcel’s suggestion in taking Joe as her date. He’s decent company and he’s not going to read too far into anything she does for the sake of the cameras – she loves his wife just as much as he does.

But he looks damn good on her arm as he leads her down the carpet, making their obligatory pit stops at the interviewers that jump out at her the second she steps foot onto the red carpet before they get to the solid wall of photographers. Joe only sticks around for a photo or two before Marcel all but yanks him backwards to give the cameras what they really want: her and her alone.

She finds a general point in the mass of camera flashes and focuses on it just like she’s been taught to do so ever since she was little, constantly shifting her body and facial expression slightly so the photographers won’t jump the barrier and strangle her for being stiff as a board. And, yes, it serves as great motivation to think of Ryan shitting himself when he sees these pictures (if he ever sees these pictures) and how good she looks in them (she looks good, right?) and how much of a fool he had to be to let her slip away (but who’s really the fool between the two of them, _really_) as she slowly makes her way down the line and gives the paparazzi every angle she has in her.

The cacophony of “Scarlett, over here!” and the like being yelled at her is but background noise as she tosses her hair and shifts her hand’s position on her hip for another set of photos, eyes glancing down the carpet slightly – and then ripping away entirely from the photographers, because sure enough, there’s Jeremy Renner some twenty feet away in his tux doing a double take to confirm that the pink dress is her.

“Hey!” she shouts, breaking out into a grin and abandoning her post in posing to rush down the carpet, Jeremy her destination.

“Scarlett!” he greets with equal enthusiasm, arm extended to meet her hug halfway. Both her hands rest on his shoulders as his lips barely graze over the skin of her cheek – her close proximity means she’s more likely to hear him over the rabid yelling behind them, so he begins talking with her reeled in. “Look-it, look who’s here with me, baby.”

The arm that’s snaked all the way across his shoulders tugs him in just a little closer into her side as she draws her head back, turning to see who it is he’s referring to. It’s Valerie, whose eyes widen theatrically when they make eye contact. Scarlett barely gets out the formality of a hello before Valerie exclaims, “I don’t have my robe on!” and Scarlett erupts into laughter.

“No robe!” Jeremy chimes in as they all laugh, Scarlett peeling off of Jeremy – his hand brushing over the center of her lower back where the lace around the keyhole tickles against her bare skin – to give Valerie a hug. Valerie’s hands rest on either side of her face as Scarlett kisses her cheek, Valerie smiling and glowing like a million bucks when they’re back to eye contact.

“So beautiful,” Valerie compliments, and beside her, Jeremy turns to give her a knowing smile with the tilt of his head. It’s like they know something she doesn’t when they tell her that, even if they’re words she’s heard a dozen times in the last five minutes. They lose their sparkle quickly, but she still has to smile and accept the compliment regardless. Fortunately, that’s easy to do with the pair of them.

Scarlett reaches out and gives Valerie’s forearm a small squeeze as her thanks. “Yeah,” she continues in the vein of the only conversation she’s got with them that isn’t about her appearance. “You don’t look the same without the robe, I was like…” She trails off knowingly as they all break out into laughs once again.

Valerie just shrugs, and Jeremy takes his mother’s tiny step back as opportunity to fully close in on Scarlett, both hands wrapped around her shoulders in a tight hug. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she says as his lips brush past her earlobe. He sounds like he means it, and his words in her champagne-glazed brain _do _have quite a ring. Her elbows bend and her hands slide up his tuxedo jacket past his shoulder blades as she reciprocates the hug, resting her chin on his shoulder. It’s California but it’s still February, and Jeremy’s hands feel like a tiny pocket of the sun caressing over the bare skin of her back. She catches a hint of his aftershave and cologne, and if she’s not mistaking him for herself, she swears there’s a trace of alcohol floating around him.

It’s enough to make her feel a little sorry for herself; here she is, having shown up to an award show where her company, her _friends _are all people on her payroll, and a bump-in with someone she barely knows feels like it’s fucking home.

The moment doesn’t last very long because it’s a red carpet and not a high school reunion, Jeremy’s publicist leaning forward to regain his attention with a tap on the shoulder. “Could you guys just turn around?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says rather dismissively – Scarlett’s not any smarter than he is. She’s heard the entire wall of Canons and Nikons going hoarse in their attempts to get them to pose for a few pictures together. They’re _trying_ to have a moment here, she’d like to bite back.

She doesn’t, though, because it's fully unnecessary; her moment is interrupting the flow of things and all they care about is that they get what they think she owes them. She operates on her muscle memory, hand that isn’t around his waist just barely holding onto the lapels of his jacket while his arm settles on top of her hips like that’s the place it calls home. They turn on their camera faces and smile to every direction, just like they’re supposed to.

“What made you send up champagne earlier?” she asks.

Jeremy’s head turns back towards her, him leaning in a little closer. “Huh?”

“Champagne,” she says directly in his ear, scrapping her question entirely. Red carpets aren’t exactly the best place for an impromptu game of Twenty Questions. “Thanks for it.”

“Oh,” he clues in, pulling back a little so she can see the grin he flashes in full. “You’re welcome. Figured you’d put it to good use.”

“Of course.”

They fall back into silence for a few more photos together, letting the photographers have their field day for a moment longer before someone begins tugging on Jeremy again. “Good to see you,” he says, giving her one last kiss on the cheek.

“You too.” And just like that, he disappears into the sea of people sharing the carpet with them as her own people come back into view, ushering her forward for more solo pictures. 

* * *

Vanity Fair’s Oscar after party is the hottest ticket in town. It always has been, and from her observations, they’re expanding the age bracket of inclusivity more than ever before. Young Hollywood has successfully infiltrated the premises, running around the place like it’s the prom. It’s because they’ve got legions of fans, which brings the publicity, which is the secret to how the circuit keeps itself moving. Relevancy is the power source that keeps the city of stars turned on and never flickering.

She’s trying to recharge her batteries off in a tucked away corner of the room, nursing a vodka soda that’s never once hit the bottom of the glass since she got it at the bar a few hours ago. It’s been amusing watching the kids roll through, all of them just barely at drinking age or using name-dropping as their currency at the cash bar. Once upon a time that was her – she can see some of herself in them through glimpses and glimmers. Their bright eyes, the way they stand a little taller with the armor of their glasses in hands, how they carry themselves like they’re on top of the world.

They’ll figure out at some point that the grass on top of the hill is dead.

Maybe it’s because it’s almost one in the morning and she’s reached the quota of flitting around like a pink-laced butterfly, smiling and charming people she knows and people she doesn’t, but she is long past the point of belonging at this party. She doesn’t feel like Scarlett Johansson very much anymore despite still wearing that face; she feels like Scarlett whose eyelashes are beginning to come loose and the lace at the back of her dress near her neck itching. The party shuts down at one-thirty, and the calls from the hotel duvet are growing louder and louder by the minute. There’s nobody left to impress, nobody around to prove she’s still got It (whatever It is anymore). Unless she’d like to migrate over to the high school kids, but at what point does desperate draw its line?

She drains the last of her drink and sets it down on the closest table, adjusting the straps around her heels before she stands up, grabbing for what she hopes and prays is her clutch as she weaves through the thinning out room.

Cece and Marcel and Joe and everyone else that she’s assigned as her company are nowhere to be found. She sent Joe home because she doesn’t need something that slightly resembles a chaperone, and she’s pretty good at chasing away the people who handle her when she wants to stretch her legs. It heightens that self-pity thing that she really tries her best to avoid (but getting drunk completely counteracts) – how’d she get to be by herself? Everyone else has their circle of friends, their significant others, a circle of acquaintances, even their fucking teams have stuck around. And then there’s her.

She wishes the voice inside her head would shut up and let her just be alone in peace.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” A voice pierces through all of the other thoughts, and she wonders when her conscience began sounding like Jeremy Renner – only, of course, to realize that it’s him in the flesh talking to her.

He smirks when she finally notices him, his eyes sweeping over her. “Bar been your friend tonight?”

“’Course,” she says.

“At least you’re an honest drunk.”

She snorts, rolling her eyes. “You wouldn’t know if I was drunk unless you kissed me on the mouth.”

Both of Jeremy’s eyebrows go shooting up into his hairline. “That a proposition, Johansson? ‘Cause I’ll have you know that I’m supposed to be on my best behavior tonight. I refuse to let you corrupt me.”

“Just saying,” she mumbles. “I could drink you under every table in this room.”

“Maybe next time.” His eyes scan the area around her before a slight frown wrinkles up his forehead. “Where’s your date?”

“Sent him home to his wife. We both deserved to have our fun tonight.” She takes note of how Jeremy’s bowtie is undone and hanging loosely around his neck, tuxedo jacket slung over his shoulder. He gives off the impression he’s had a good time tonight, too. As he deserves.

“This place is shutting down,” he observes, like she doesn’t have enough of an established peripheral vision to take notice that it’s veering more and more towards tumbleweed territory. “You got a ride back to the Roosevelt?”

She nods – she thinks, she does _something_ with her head, anyways – and Jeremy holds one of his arms out to her. “Wanna split?”

“Sure thing, handsome.”

They take one of the back exits outside, away from where the strongest of the paparazzi are still leaning up against a singular tree or a telephone pole waiting to capture the prized photos of hammered celebrities on their way out. Things like this are a tabloid’s field day and every publicist’s nightmare.

Jeremy is a nice pillar to lean up against while they wait for a car to roll through, the February wind biting and nipping at all of her exposed skin and sending a shiver running through her. He doesn’t hesitate in draping his tux jacket around her shoulders when he feels the slight trembling against him. It’s a moment like this when she’d really like a cigarette, but regrettably, Cece and Marcel made sure to get a clutch so small that all she could slip in was her phone and an extra tube of lipstick.

Their car stops at the curb, driver hopping out to grab the door. Jeremy’s hand is steady as he helps Scarlett off the curb and into the car, sliding in after her. “Roosevelt,” he tells the driver once he’s back behind the wheel and pushing the gear shift back into drive.

It’s a comfortable car, all leather interior and a spacious backseat. Her head lolls against the headrest, eyes fluttering shut as the car smoothly pulls off and out onto the road. The radio’s off and the only sound filling her ears is the sound of the turn signal – it wouldn't take much to drift right off to sleep. “Go through the business valet when you get there,” she hears Jeremy say. “Don’t need any extra eyes.”

“Sure thing, man.”

“What,” Scarlett mutters as she opens her eyes again, head rolling so her line of sight is directly at Jeremy. “Don’t wanna be seen with me?”

Jeremy laughs softly. “Figure I better not add any fuel to the fire of those carpet pictures from earlier.”

“Ah,” Scarlett agrees with a slow nod. “Good idea.”

“That’s me: full of good ideas.”

She slides up the back of the seat to help herself get into a somewhat upright position, gaze quickly fixating on the bar service sharing the backseat with them. “Whoa there, sweetheart,” Jeremy says, his arm clothes-lining out and stopping her midway as she bends down to pull a glass and the Crown bottle for herself. “I think you’ve had your fill.”

Scarlett shoots him a look. “C’mon.”

“I told you,” he continues, helping her lean back up against the seat. “I’m on my best behavior. No corruption allowed.”

“Hey, you don’t have to drink with me.”

“I feel like I’m contributing to the delinquency if I have to watch it.”

Scarlett’s shoulders slouch as she pouts. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m a blast,” he counters. “Promise.”

“I...definitely don’t believe you.”

“Your loss, then.”

“Is it?” He doesn’t respond, just pulls another smirk and goes back to staring out of the windshield. “Hey,” she mumbles after a moment, poking him in the arm with her elbow. “Sorry you didn’t win.”

Jeremy shakes his head. “It’s no más, sweetheart. Besides, I told you I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Yeah, but you deserved it.”

“How would you know? You didn’t even watch my movie.”

“Just a vibe,” she answers sleepily.

Conversation fades to a close and they make the rest of the ride in silence, Scarlett dozing off a few times before the city lights turn into the overhead ceiling lights in the business valet entrance to the Roosevelt and the car comes to a complete stop. “Hey, Johansson,” Jeremy says quietly to her. “This is us.”

“Backseat’s comfy,” she tries to insist.

“Come on.” He slips out of the car and like some kind of fast-forwarding magic he’s suddenly around on the other side, having bumped the driver out of the way and holding his hand out for her to assist in getting her out of the car. She uses the steady weight of his hand to help pull herself up and out, quickly winding her elbow around his to keep upright.

Jeremy gives the driver a two-fingered salute as they walk off, heading for the sliding glass doors into the hotel.

“You need me to walk you up to your room?” Jeremy asks after he pushes the ‘up’ button on the elevator panel, waiting for it to arrive.

When she shakes her head, deflated locks of blonde hair enter the corners of her vision. “’M good,” she says. “Someone’ll let me in.”

“You had a hot date this whole time?” he jokes, breaking out into a grin. “And you were running around with me?”

There’s the quiet ping that heralds the elevator’s arrival, metal door rolling back. “No hot date,” Scarlett corrects. “Haven’t had any of those in a while.”

“Hey,” Jeremy starts as they step into the elevator. She might be buzzed but she can still read body language like it’s an open book – she knows exactly what is about to come out of his mouth judging by the solemn demeanor he’s suddenly adopted. She doesn't want to hear it.

“Don’t bother,” she cuts off swiftly, leaning around him to push the buttons for nine and ten. Their eyes meet as she draws back, and the weight of the way he’s looking at her is enough to sober her up a little. “Please.”

Jeremy lifts both hands in mock arrest, taking a slight step backwards so he’s leaning up against the wall of the elevator.

When they reach the ninth floor, Jeremy’s hands run over the tops of her shoulders as he steps past her. “It was good seeing you again, sweetheart,” he tells her, accompanied by a small smile.

She’s suddenly reminded that his jacket is still draped around her shoulders, and she gracelessly shrugs her way out of it as she offers it back up to him. “Don’t forget this.”

His fingers brush past hers as he takes it from her, small chuckle escaping his chest. “Thanks.”

“See you soon?” she asks.

He steps over the threshold of the elevator and stops, glancing over his shoulder. A short nod prefaces his quiet, “Sleep tight.”

He’s still got that sleepy half-smile on his face when the elevator door slides back to a close. 


	4. so i'm never going back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise my intention ISN'T to wait like, a whole ass month in between updates, but SOMETIMES LIFE JUST KICKS YOU IN THE KNEECAPS! i can successfully report that wifimageddon has come to a conclusion and that i am unfortunately around on a regular basis to spam you with all of my bullshit. anyways, thanks times a billion for remaining patient with me! it's checking the inbox and seeing comments or messages from you guys that brighten up my day and make me infinitely more excited to open my computer and write. i also never want to give you shit, so i refuse to post a chapter until i myself am pleased with it (call this a fatal flaw, if you will) and if it takes me 400 years? then it takes me 400 years and i'm posting from the grave, POINT IS y'all will not be rid of me no matter how badly you want to be. :) 
> 
> do i look like i know wushu? am an action *~star~*? partake in any kind of exercise??? gimme that creative liberty, y'all. it's fan FIC. literally. and in the vein of disclaimers, i am tired of clown 1 and 2 always waiting to have their day in the limelight when i'm on the cusp of updating. it's tiring. i'm tired. this is my official notice that i am retiring from the trenches. if you're uncomfortable with what i'm writing? even if they were the purest souls on the planet, there's some who would say writing rpf is problematic in and of itself. the 'x' button exists. click it. it doesn't hurt my feelings. if you wanna stick around, then by all means, do. this is my safe place and my creative outlet and if it's still yours too, know you're welcome here with open arms. 
> 
> feedback is more valuable than oxygen around these parts; don't be shy, leave a little love (or your thoughts or complaints or what you want more of or really, anything, i'm not picky) on your way out! chapter title is from hey violet's 'guys my age.' i'm lurking on twitter @emswifts more than someone with my limited amount of free time ought to be, and i love getting to hear from y'all so please drop by and say hello! please. i'm lonely. happy reading xx

**MESSAGES**  
Unknown Sender

Thursday, March 3rd

Have you heard the news? We’re dating  
[ ATTACHED: <https://bit.ly/3553Kae> ]

News to me

Flirting with you made me the biggest winner of the  
night, apparently

Sad

One day when those pictures are framed in our co-owned  
townhouse, you will feel complete remorse towards  
this conversation and how you shot me down

Hope you’re having a good one, sweetheart

Official shit isn’t far off!!

You too!

SCARY. Am not ready in the slightest for the  
stunt people to mop the floor with me

See you soon!

* * *

Award show season barely comes to a close before it is full throttle into the _Avengers._ There is no time to think about anything else or breathe air that isn’t tainted with a whisper of Marvel – it’s fittings and signing paperwork that runs the gambit from non-disclosure agreements to temporary leases, strict diets and being forwarded twenty different emails a day, packing and going to more fittings, workout sessions that render her incapable of walking to her car and discussing shades of red with Joss Whedon and _more fucking fittings._ Principal photography hasn’t even begun and already Scarlett is sick of the goddamn Lycra suit.

She dyes her hair red and the first few nights of sleeping on new white sheets that are exclusively hers result in staining the pillowcases. It’s not her first time as a redhead (she’s always hated her natural hair color and categorizes time periods in her life by different hair color and style) yet every time she looks in the mirror, she likes the look of the person who meets her gaze. Blondes, brunettes – she’s walked in their shoes and can attest that redheads have the most fun, or at least, they look like they do anyways. Besides, the meaning of her name is a shade of red. Red is practically made for her by that logic. Is it overly cliché? Sure, but it’s fitting, and now isn’t the time when she starts giving a fuck about whether or not she’s contributing an original idea or two up into the atmosphere.

The red hair gives a slight leg up, both in a figurative and literal sense: Sean Penn likes redheads a _lot_, and if Scarlett’s been spending all of March making moon eyes at him? Well, that’s her business, and not anyone else’s.

Ryan got to fuck every last trace of her away with Blake, why couldn’t she do the same to him with Sean?

“Sure you’ve gotta go?” Sean asks her early one morning when it’s still dark outside and she’s pulling her hair into as convincing of a ponytail as she can manage. She glances over her shoulder and smiles at the sight of him, half his body tangled in the sheet and the other half wearing the kisses she seared over his skin the night before.

“If I don’t want to be fired.”

He sighs resignedly as he shifts further onto his side, arm resting behind his head on the pillow. “If you must,” he sniffs playfully.

Scarlett spins around as she stands up, leaning over the mattress to kiss him. “Dinner tonight?” she asks once she pulls away, determined to keep the kiss from dipping into a territory in which she will have to finish what she starts, territory that will only result in her being late.

“Whatever you want.”

That’s what she likes about Sean. Never mind the fact he’s already fifty with two kids she has absolutely zero interest in meeting or playing step-mom to (just the thought of it makes her want to break out in hives). There are no strings with Sean. It’s whatever she wants, however she wants, and he’s happy to give her what she needs while making that be enough for him. He accommodates. She strongly suspects that he’s got the impression he’s a rebound, but it doesn’t keep her up at night. This is what she does, and she reassures herself that he would’ve never let her crawl into bed with him the second and third time if rebounding was something he wasn’t about. Sean’s a _man._ He’s everything Ryan wasn’t, and that is perhaps the biggest relief of all.

She grins, giving him another quick kiss on the corner of the mouth before she rocks back on her heels and straightening her spine. Sean waves lazily at her as she goes.

Making sense of the literal hundreds of emails that have flooded her inbox about _Avengers_ is about as simple as actual rocket science – or getting something through Ryan’s skull – but she has a general understanding of what’s going on, enough to keep her on the right path. The film is massive, more massive than _Iron Man 2 _and perhaps the most massive film she’ll ever be a part of. The ambitious comment made at Comic Con hadn’t been far off after all, and with lofty aspirations came extensive ladders to climb to reach them. Filming would start in April in Albuquerque, an action that would require a little relocation on all the actor’s behalves. There was no schedule set in stone yet, but from the pieces of the puzzle she had, shooting would be sporadic in order to accommodate for the sheer amount of behind-the-scenes work required, be it sets or stunt work or anything in between.

Training is neck-deep at this point, the _sooner rather than later_ approach favored strongly. Considering she’d only had a taste of the stunt work required to play an assassin during _Iron Man 2_, she wasn’t taken aback at the gauntlet of things they ran through with her in the five and six hour sessions at a nondescript gym in Hollywood that resembled a shady warehouse from the exterior. More weapons handling, wushu, weight-lifting, gymnastics, the typical workout that they would have ground out of her at any other gym.

Training’s taught her a lot about herself, though. She loathes cardio with everything in her and would rather die. She cannot even walk on the treadmill normally if any of her costars are in the vicinity (especially Hemsworth, something about him brings out the competitive demon in her) and has to push herself to the edge to prove that yes, she might be the only girl, but she’s able to whip their asses in a circle any way she damn pleases. She can’t just do a move and feel accomplished; she’s got to make it look good, fully own it to the point where it appears as fluid and second-nature to her as breathing would. Training’s also fun, if she can overlook the gelatinous feeling in her kneecaps and generally disgusting feeling of sweat dripping down her back and the daunting thought that if she doesn’t get it perfect it’ll look fucking stupid on screen and she will equate a disappointment. 

What doesn’t kill her will make her stronger, she supposes, and if that is the case, she’s well on her way to being forged out of steel.

The closer they get to the beginning of principal photography, the more the workouts start to look like stunt training. She almost never sees either of the Chrises at the gym anymore now that their scheduled gym times turn them into ships in the night. The only person she sees much of is Jeremy, and it’s because they’re getting very similar training aside from her agility and hand-to-hand and his working with a fucking Olympian.

Let the record reflect that Marvel is nothing if not efficient.

Marvel's also wildly talented at pulling out all the shades of a painting's background and bringing them to the forefront of attention. After the Oscars, it seems that everywhere she turns around he is close by – or, at the very least, something that reminds her of him. She's sure the pictures from that red carpet will follow her and them for months (Vanessa's already sent her dozens, a new one every day of the week) and the wicked ways their employers work means there's no getting rid of him any time soon. Good thing she likes him.

His car is already in the lot when she arrives, the rising sun glinting off the windshield of his Porsche and threatening to blind her as she walks by. If there’s anyone that grinds themselves to the bone for a role, maybe even more than she does, it’s Jeremy.

The hum from all the running fans is audible from the second she steps inside the building, the breeze the air conditioner’s created setting all of the pieces of hair that barely fit into her ponytail loose. She knows the chill prickling goosebumps along her arms will disappear once she really gets into the thick of things, but she’s appreciative she doesn’t have to start out in a humid cloud of heat.

The building’s layout is without ornament; there are a few rooms with typical workout equipment, treadmills and ellipticals and an impressive array of weight lifting equipment, a locker room, a few bathrooms with showers, and then the wide open room with the padded floors and high ceilings that’s used for most of the legitimate training. For Scarlett, it’s mostly hand-to-hand work, to the point where they may as well rope off a square of the floor and deem it fight night.

She peeks into one of the weight-lifting rooms that shows signs of life, leaning her entire body against the doorframe when she sees who’s occupying it. Jeremy has his back to her, at the rack and doing squats with his earbuds in. She is a quiet observer, visually absorbing his steady rhythm and form (it’s as close to perfect as perfect can get on this fucked up planet). The back of his t-shirt is already sporting a giant sweat spot, evidence that he’s been hard at work for some time now.

A minute or so passes and he finishes his set, straightening his knees and placing the weight back on the rack. He goes to reach for his water, earbud slipping out of his ear when he moves. Scarlett takes it as her opportunity to make her presence known with a manufactured, entirely-fake cough.

Jeremy freezes before he turns around, Scarlett’s face relaxing into a cat-like smile upon their eyes locking. “You’re a fuckin’ creep,” he laughs once he realizes it’s only her sharing the space with him.

“You’re supposed to have a spot,” she accuses in a sing-song voice.

He finds her acknowledgement of the obvious amusing. “What ‘ya gonna do? Snitch?” He twists the top of his water bottle off, bringing it up to his lips and swallowing it greedily.

“I should,” she continues, crossing her arms over her chest. “Imagine the headlines: _Jeremy Renner crushed in workout accident that could have been completely prevented if he wasn’t too cocky.”_

“If acting ever goes south for you, The Daily Mail will hire you in a heartbeat. I’d click on that shit.”

“What am I gonna do if you get your stupid ass killed and have to shoot with another Hawkeye?”

Jeremy snorts. “Oh, yeah, poor you. You’re the one in work, while I’m dead.” He exhales deeply after one last drink, languidly closing the bottle and doing his best to avoid looking straight at her while she rolls her eyes derisively. “This is nothin’, I’m fine,” he insists.

“You’re a liar,” she calls him out almost immediately.

“Wow,” he breathes out in feigned amazement. “Scarlett Johansson, the human polygraph test. Who knew you were so talented?”

She peels off of the doorframe, stepping fully inside the room and closer to the rack. “Not the only talent I’ve got up under my sleeve.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Scarlett drops her bag on the ground near his water bottle, sitting down on one of the benches belonging to a bench press right across from his rack. “Consider me your spot.”

His eyebrows shift towards his hairline. “Not that I’d ever dare insinuate you being weak, but you really mean to tell me you could lift this thing off me if I slipped?”

“I could yell for help, which is more than you’d be able to do with a crushed chest,” she retorts. “And I’ve been doing the same insane workouts that you’ve been doing. I’m built like a tank, Renner.”

Jeremy erupts into laughter, rumbling straight from his chest and splitting his mouth into a smile. It’s not spiteful, merely product of her word choice and the facial expression she’s coupled with it. “Okay,” he concedes. “I’ll grant you your wish of keeping me company.”

He winks at her, and the scoff lodges in her throat.

She wouldn’t say she could teach a master class on Jeremy just quite yet, but he’s no stranger. He hasn’t been a stranger in years, but Scarlett’s idea of a friend belongs in the minority. Friends aren’t people who have similar and shared life experiences. Scarlett’s _friendly_ with plenty of people, and she’s friendly with Jeremy, but there’s something about him that catches her sharp edges and snags. She knows about him – she knows he’s one of six kids and that he drinks his coffee black and is California born and bred, but she doesn’t know him. She’s maybe made seven percent worth of progress spread out across the years of bump-ins and idle conversation, and she has the itching feeling that even after all this she won’t tip the scales past fifty.

It’s like tasting her own medicine for the first time, though, because she can’t count on her fingers the number of efforts she’s engineered over the years to ensure the same about herself. 

“What are you doing today?” Jeremy asks as he gets back into position at the rack, fingers curling around the bar.

Scarlett gives a nonchalant, one-shouldered shrug. “Probably more wushu.”

“Still not in peak shape to kick my ass?” he teases her, wiggling his eyebrows.

“They might wipe the floor with me, but I _will_ wipe the floor with you,” she avows.

“We’ll see about that.”

He falls silent as he takes the bar off the rack, slipping back into a laser focus of not dropping a couple hundred pounds while he does another set of squats. Scarlett’s content to sit in silence, her eyes following his every move. His earbuds stay draped around his shoulders like a necklace, the tinny flow of his music crossing the room at a barely audible volume. He looks right past her, mind elsewhere, but when he finishes up a set and places the bar back on the rack for a moment to catch his breath, he’ll seem to remember she’s in the room and offer her a smile.

“Need me to spot you on the treadmill later?” he offers, ridiculous grin emerging.

Her eyes narrow, lips pressing thin in a grimace. “I think I can be trusted to not bust my ass on the treadmill without your careful gaze.”

Jeremy laughs. “I mean this with all the love in my heart, but you are a goddamn hypocrite.”

“We all have our flaws.”

“Scarlett?” A third person interrupts them, head peeking around the doorframe and settling sights right on Scarlett. “There you are – someone said they thought they’d seen your car in the lot but we weren’t sure.”

Scarlett gives a small wave as confirmation. She is unfortunately notorious for being late – like smoking, it's a bad habit she has done everything in her power to kick but cannot seem to shake no matter how early she gets on the freeway. 

Her trainer’s eyes shift over to where Jeremy is standing at the rack, eyebrows knitting together as the accusatory tone rings through the room. “Are you in here lifting by yourself?” 

Jeremy stays quiet, like the little kid who got his hand caught in the cookie jar. He looks straight ahead at Scarlett – like if he doesn’t visually acknowledge anyone else in the room then they simply aren’t there – while she glowers at him with _I told you so_ scrolling in her irises. “Let me go find somebody to spot you so I can have Scarlett back.”

“I like her better!” he shouts right as her trainer leaves.

“Ha,” Scarlett gloats once they’re alone, standing up and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Now who’s in trouble?”

“What are they gonna do, send me to the principal’s office?” 

“Kevin Feige is awfully terrifying,” she muses solemnly. “And imagine: being stuck in detention without me to entertain you. The horror.”

“You’d be right there beside me, sweetheart, and you know it.”

“We’ll see about that!” she exclaims as she saunters towards the door, Jeremy’s laughter following her.

“Have a good workout!” he calls after her. She doesn’t bother to turn around, because she can feel his smile burning a line right through her back.

“You too!” she replies with equal enthusiasm. Even if it _would_ be satisfying to squeeze in another ‘told you so’ somewhere.

Not as though his comments and well-wishes hold any sort of gravity over her personal work ethic, but she does have a generally good workout. To no surprise, they run through more hand-to-hand combat (wushu, which will be her funeral) than they did last time, leaving her flat on her back on the padded floor of the main room panting for breath.

“C’mon,” her trainer says, extending a hand out to her after what feels like hours of letting the blood pound in her ears.

“I’m comfortable here,” she insists, to a laugh. His hand wraps around hers and she feels the force run through the muscles in her arm as he helps pull her upright.

“I’m sure you are,” he laughs. “Just think, you’re almost to the point where you’ll be begging for these days back.” 

“Impossible,” she shoots down as she’s pulled to her feet, tugging her t-shirt back down over her hips. “There is no way I will miss this.”

“When Jeremy’s dragging you around by the hair you will.”

Scarlett snorts. “Is that what he’s told you?” She ambles over to the area of the room where she’s left her water bottle to stand solitary.

“Oh no,” Eric says solemnly. “We’ve already started blocking stunt choreography. Pretty sure there’s a bit where he tries to pull your hair out.”

Her shoulders slouch in disappointment.

“Wanna go for one more round and then call it a day?” Eric asks.

She’s almost gasping for breath when she finishes off the last of her water. “Shortest day I’ve ever had.” 

“I’m supposed to try and keep you in one piece.”

It sounds like an utter joke, considering how every time she steps foot into a room where Eric also is, she swears she sees Jesus waving at her from the back of her eyelids, but Scarlett's no stranger to a fucked up sense of humor. She presses her lips into a thin, disbelieving smile as she smooths the hair on her head down and takes a deep breath. Eric understands that for as hard as he is on her, she's twice as hard on herself. It's only fun when she's successful, and she can only be successful when she comes out on the other side of it. When she's in the thick of it, she's fully submerged, teeth gritted and muscles working as Eric tries not to hold onto her handlebars and let her fully deliver every move and blow. She knows she's tough, knows that the diet and the workout have complemented it, that she can not only do this but do it well.

They end with her standing over him, Eric waving both of his hands as signal that they're through.

"Damn, Renner better watch out," he pants as Scarlett offers her hand to help him.

Her smile stretches from ear to ear. "Don't tell me I'm supposed to try and keep _him_ in one piece."

"Joss and Feige's words, not mine." Scarlett huffs in response, both hands settling on her hips as she hunches over slightly in the middle to help regulate her breathing. "But once we hand the reins over to the two of you for the fight scene, I'm just an innocent bystander. What you do or don't slip in isn't on my head."

"When are we gonna start that, anyways?" 

Eric shrugs. "We haven't gotten a final filming schedule yet. Pretty sure any time one of you is fighting, the other's always in the shot, though, so..." He trails off, Scarlett able to add two and two together quite easily.

He reaches forward, giving her a tap on the shoulder. "You're good for the day," he dismisses. "Go clean up. Hit the treadmill if you want."

"Hell no," Scarlett scoffs. "My day is done. Places to go, people to see."

Eric breaks out into a grin, soft laugh escaping him. "Good job today."

"Thanks," she says. He isn't getting paid to tell her how great she is, which makes the compliment feel genuine, but she's quickly realized that the physicality component to Natasha goes far beyond what tiny snippets of verbal praise will build up. To Scarlett, there are still miles and mountains of improvement to go and conquer. The _good job_ is transient; it lasts only for the moment if it bothers to stick around at all, and will be gone by tomorrow.

She grabs her water bottle and heads straight for the glass doors back into the main hallway of the building. It's instantly six degrees colder, the air conditioning feeling phenomenal as it breezes over her skin, cooling the hairs that are plastered to the back of her neck in sweat and ruffling the escaped ones flying around the halo of her head. She shuffles down to the locker room at the very end of the hall where she stores her bag. The change of clothes she keeps on hand are calling her name, growing louder and louder as every step reveals a new place sweat is running.

There's a locker that has a nondescript piece of masking tape that will not come off no matter how diligently she tries to dig her fingernails under the edge and pick at it in the moments where she is nothing but skin, bone, sweat, and a single track mind. She favors it since it stands out among the others, making it easy for her to remember where she's put all of her shit. None of the lockers have locks on them, surprisingly; all that's required is for her to push up on the little knob and the door comes swinging open in a holy racket.

She slips off her sweaty shirt, balling it up and throwing it into the open mouth of her bag as she sits down on the bench. It gives her body an exposed second in the line of the steady flow of A/C, a moment to cool down before putting on a hoodie.

While she sits, she fishes for her phone in her bag and scrolls through the notifications. Several are forwarded emails from Cece, Marcel, Joe, her mom, random websites that she hasn't visited in years, and at the top sits two text messages from Sean.

Miss u gorgeous

La Cevicheria tonite, 7pm. Wear something pretty

The smirk tugs itself onto her lips on its own volition – one thing that's suddenly reemerged in her life in spite of divorce lawyers and mountains of paperwork is an abundance of creativity. She rests her phone in her lap, balancing it there as she rips off her sports bra and tosses it half-heartedly into her bag. Her fingers dance over the phone screen carefully as she pulls up Sean's text thread, opening up the camera and raising the phone slightly.

She's about ninety-eight percent sure that if she called her mom and asked her if she'd ever burned her hand on the stove as a child, the answer would be _yes, many times, because you never learned_. 

Scarlett knows her angles, knows which ones make her look good and which ones make her look damn irresistible. She takes a few photos, scanning over the previews quickly and deleting the extraneous ones that aren't up to par. 

She's just about to lift the camera back up to take at least one more, one that'll tide Sean over until after dinner (she fully intends to be dessert) when the sound of the door to the locker room swinging open nearly scares her right out of her skin. 

Her phone falls from her hands, knees clenching together to catch it before it goes clattering to the ground. "Oh," comes Jeremy's voice from behind her right about the time she goes diving into her hoodie, yanking it down as far as it will go. "I'll just—"

"—it's fine," she interrupts coolly, nonchalant to the point of an indifference that could slice her open to the bone. 

"Don't let me hold you up," Jeremy says, one of his hands up in mock arrest when she's composed enough to adjust herself on the bench so she's angled in his direction.

"No hold up here." To further her point, she locks her phone and drops it into her bag, hoping that it will join up with her dignity at the very bottom. 

He seems hesitant about coming into the room any farther than he already has. Scarlett flips her hair out since most of it has come unraveling from her ponytail, letting both of her hands fall in her lap. "You leaving too?" she asks.

Jeremy winces, shaking his head. "Nah. We haven't even started on the bow stuff for today. Apparently _someone _was occupying the room."

"What, you can't shoot your Nerf crossbow straight?" she taunts him, eyes following him across the room. His back is to her as he opens up a locker several doors down from hers.

"I get the feeling whoever you're sending _that_ to wouldn't be too happy if I accidentally let an arrow run right through you."

"I wasn't..." She trails off, Jeremy glancing over his shoulder with a knowing look painted across his face. It screams _give me a fucking break. I'm not that dumb. _"Probably not what you think it is," she finally concedes.

"On behalf of not wanting to know what you get into in your free time, I will take your word for it."

She can't help but to watch as he turns back around, hands reaching up towards the collar of his shirt and pulling it over his head. It's not as though she's never seen a back before, and it's not like Jeremy's back is the most scandalous thing to have revealed to her (it's certainly not a bad sight to have, watching the muscles ripple through his shoulders and arms in his fluid motion), but considering the circumstance he just stumbled across her in, the whiplash of tables turning leaves her feeling awkward. 

He retrieves his duffel bag, setting it down on the bench next to her as he begins rummaging through it. Scarlett stands up, slinging her bag over her shoulder and carefully leaning up against her own locker to ensure that it closes. Jeremy's pulling things out of his bag and resting them along the length of the bench in pursuit of whatever it is he's attempting to locate; Scarlett can't help but to watch the efforts quietly. Empty protein shake bottles, his phone, socks that have lost their mate, a loose dollar bill. It baffles her, the amount of things he's got stashed away and carries on the go with him. 

Her attention is stolen by his phone screen lighting up. Curiosity holds a knife to the cat's throat and Scarlett likes to test it even when she knows better – he knows little about her and she knows even less about him, and if she has to cherry-pick her information off a thorny bush, it'll at least give her something. She does her best not to crane her neck out too far, catching sight of what she thinks is a name before the screen goes back to black.

"Who's Sonni?" she asks casually. When she says the name, Jeremy's head shoots up like a rocket, eyes gluing themselves to her. Both of her eyes widen in enlightenment. "So she's a friend."

"Probably not what you think it is," he grumbles, jumping up and stealing the words she's left to grow cold in the air above them for his own use.

Two can play at that game. "I'll take your word for it."

"You on your way out?" he asks, apparently locating the balled up shirt he's been on the hunt for and resorting to throwing everything back in the bag haphazardly. It isn't lost on her that the phone is the first to disappear.

"Yep." Her hands mess with the strap on her bag absentmindedly. 

Jeremy puts his duffel back in the locker, slipping into the cleaner shirt and speaking up after his moment of pause. "Wouldn't happen to have plans for tomorrow, would 'ya?" Her head tilts to the side, wisps of red hair falling in her eyes as she glares at him. "We'd thought about maybe grabbing drinks after our workout. Me, Evans, maybe Hemsworth. Didn't know if you were on schedule or free." 

"Sounds like a real party," she draws out with a slow nod. "I'll pass, though. It's my day off."

"You know, once we're in Albuquerque, you won't be able to blow me off so easily," he reminds her. "You'll have no choice but to spend time with me beyond the four corners of the job." 

"I'll get creative." She pats him on the shoulder patronizingly as she walks past, in direction of the door. 

She doesn't even get a toe over the threshold before he pipes back up, the sound of his voice stopping her dead in her tracks. "Hey." She stops, hand hovering over the door as she glances over her shoulder at him. He's tugging the hem of his shirt down in adjustment, blue eyes glittering with something that looks like concern as they meet hers. His face scrunches up as he asks, "We all good here?" 

Any remaining traces from the flash flood of awkwardness drain from the room thanks to her open door. "'Course we are," she says without hesitation, paired with a smile, because really, she can find no existing reason as to why they shouldn't be.


	5. the street lights pointed in an arrowhead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....so, i know what you're thinking. _emily, why did you abandon us?_ the answer to your question is really quite simple: nano fic demanded it be my only focus for the month of november, and who was i to tell it no? and then december happened in the blink of an eye, and now somehow we are at the very end of the first month of 2020, which i can't explain, really. what i can explain is that i have been on the struggle bus every day trying to write for this, not out of lack of muse, but out of lack of desire to put my fingers on a keyboard and type words that make sense when put together. you have not been forgotten, though, despite what i may have led you to believe, and neither has this story!! my faves just keep putting out new music left and right (thanks guys, for keeping the fire lit underneath my ass) and i continue to accumulate ideas for this story, and it all comes down to the fact that writing is how i keep my sanity in tact - lord knows my SANITY NEEDS SOME SUPERGLUE RN in the form of rennerson!! so here we are. thanks for being super patient with me, it means a whole, whole lot 💕
> 
> anyways, as fun as it has been writing what feels like glorified oneshots that can stand on their own two feet up until this point, it Exhausts me, and i am itching to do what i do best - writing 5 chapters that focus all on the same day!!!!! WOOO!!!!! continuity is here, babes, and it's sticking around for a while. somewhow, i've never written avengers (2012) filming in all my bajillion years of writing clown 1 and 2 despite my love and many theories for that time period, so i am very excited????? there's only one movie i've ever chronicled the filming of in a fic and i am now legitimate friends with those actors, so...THE FUTURE, LADIES, IS BRIGHT! and, as always, if there are any specific things you'd like to see me explore in this fics, be it canon moments or just something your self-indulgence would thrive off having, please do not hesitate to leave it in a comment and let me know! not only does feedback keep the lights on, but i am a woman of the people. i am happy to make your wish my command. wink. 
> 
> chapter title is from taylor swift's 'cornelia street.' i'm on twitter @emswifts and tumblr @nvtasha, come hang out with me if you too spend your days wishing you were back in 2012. happy reading xx

With every day that passes, LA gets warmer, the sun stays up a little longer, and the date on the calendar inches closer to April twenty-fifth. According to the dozens of marked emails in Scarlett’s inbox, the twenty-fifth is the official date for principal photography to begin.

Only God and Joss know what’s coming up first on the schedule – everyone else’s knowledge extends to being needed in New Mexico by then, ready to go whenever the word is said. Until such time, it’s business as usual with gym time five days a week.

Scarlett doesn’t need routine in order to survive, but she doesn’t mind the predictability of how her days go. Jeremy becomes a predictable part of her day at the gym – sometimes, they’ll warm up together before someone comes to inevitably separate them, but the majority of their scheduled free time finds them leaning up against the lockers or straddling a bench as they talk to each other as they drag their breaks out to the absolute last second.

One Wednesday (Scarlett knows it’s a Wednesday because Sean stopped by the liquor store the previous night to stock up for their now-traditional Wasted Wednesdays) Jeremy asks her, “When do you think they’re ever gonna let us play with each other?”

She looks up from the shoelaces that she’s in the process of retying, bewilderment slapped all over her face. Jeremy immediately gets the expression and rolls his eyes. “My _god_, someone needs to deep clean your mind,” he groans.

“This is what I call preparation for the next few months of being in survival mode around you rowdy boys.”

“I would bet my entire paycheck that you have the dirtiest mind out of all of us.”

“Oh, you don’t know Chris Evans,” she sings disarmingly.

He folds his arms over his chest, shoulder pressing into the corner of the lockers as he leans his entire body weight into them. “Seriously though; you’d think that if they were scheduling us the same right down to the minute, we’d be doing something together.”

Scarlett shrugs, chewing on her lip as she concentrates on her knot tying. “Who knows what kind of fucked up logic lingers in their brains?” Once she’s satisfied with the laces on that shoe, she switches the leg that’s resting on the bench to fix the other one. “You trying to say you don’t like spending time with me?” she ribs, toothy grin itching its way over her lips.

Jeremy’s head lolls back against the lockers, feigning his annoyance. “I simply don’t know how I can bear to breathe the same air as you any longer,” he announces dramatically, earning her laughter.

“You’re in for a long ride, then.”

Once she finishes her shoes, Jeremy holds the door to the locker room open and gestures for her to exit first out into the hallway.

They have graduated to simultaneously working in the same room as one another, Jeremy on the far end of the gymnasium and her on the opposite. They’re still doing different things – Jeremy with his bow and Scarlett with the goddamn wushu _still_ – but occasionally they’ll steal glimpses over where the other is working and if they happen to catch their line of sight, there’s an offered smirk or wink.

Eric and Jeremy’s trainer are guilty of each having half of the same brain, because they call a quick break to join up in the middle of the room and discuss blocking or whatever the hell it is that’s suddenly come to them.

Opportunity knocks, so Scarlett answers by wandering over to Jeremy’s side of the gym. “How’s the arm?” she asks upon her approach. She’s recently discovered that they are both left-handed and that this tiny detail is currently giving him hell in the department of learning the proper way to hold and fire a bow and arrow.

As if to emphasize, Jeremy swings the arm in question in large circles to stretch it out. “Okay,” he answers indifferently.

“Your form looked pretty good from over there.”

“Thanks,” he says. “Didn’t know me and my form were a distraction.”

“You’re not a distraction,” she insists way too quickly for him to ever believe that she is, in fact, telling the truth. The sly smirk on his face doesn’t remain suppressed much longer.

He laughs, continuing to rotate his arm and switching directions every few loops. “If you say so.”

In all the years that they’ve been satellites doing their orbit in a similar zip code of space, she has had plenty of time to build up an immunity to his ability in finding the parts of her that have chipping paint and driving underneath it in a way that makes her want to come out of her skin, yet has somehow failed royally at that simple task. He’s done it; if she trips him up any, he doesn’t show it. But she’s not used to having someone who will play her game _and_ do it better than she does. It’s not something she can get familiar with, either. Instead, she makes acquaintances with being at a loss for words, the grinding halt of brakes in her brain, and a flush that creeps up her chest onto her neck.

He seems to be feeling particularly merciful because he tosses her a line. “Your form looked pretty good, too.”

This is where they’re different. He catches her off guard and then throws her a line when he notices her floundering – she takes said line and uses it to pull him right into the pool she’s drowning in.

“Oh,” she taunts with a laugh, hands stationing on her hips. “Is it a distraction?”

“Even if it is, it’s still gonna leave you flat on your ass once they let us start working with each other.”

She succumbs very easily to her competitive streak, brought out because his inhabitation under her skin leaves no room for anything else. “Prove it.”

Jeremy glances around them, his eyes narrowed skeptically when they return to her. “Where exactly would you suggest we test this theory?”

Scarlett grins, kneeling down on the floor. She stretches out on her stomach, propped up on her elbows and waving one of her hands to further her point. “Bet my right arm’s stronger than your left.”

He exhales a mirthless sort of scoff, tossing his bow over to another corner of the padded floor where it bounces a few times when it lands. “You’re on,” he grumbles, joining her on the ground.

They grasp hands once he’s situated, his left palm clenched tightly around her right. She stares straight ahead at him, curling and re-curling her fingers in adjustment. “Three.”

Jeremy’s lips tug upward into a smirk, one that she is looking forward to wiping right off his face. “Two.”

“One.”

They immediately launch into a stalemate, both of them exerting as much force as they can without wearing it on their face. Scarlett’s eyes never leave him, even when he shifts his own line of sight towards their shaking hands as one tries to push the other down.

“Struggling?” she asks, mindful of not speaking through gritted teeth.

“You wish, sweetheart.”

Every inch that the other loses is quickly regained, both of them putting forth enough strength to win and enough of a poker face to make the other believe it’s nothing. Scarlett is eating her words the hotter the burn grows in her right arm – it’s not her dominant arm, and Jeremy’s had more than plenty of work strengthening his left. Her hand slips, and slips, and it takes everything in her not to be _that_ person and cheat so she’s hanging on with two hands. Gravity gets the best of her and Jeremy slams her hand down onto the padded floor.

“Victory!” he laughs, right about the time that she groans in defeat. Her head drops, resting against her forearm as she sprawls her hand out to let the blood flow to her fingertips resume. “Hey, don’t sweat it, I’m sure you’ll beat me someday.”

“You’re a dick,” she whines.

“Are you a sore loser, Red? This is interesting information.”

Her head pops back up, left hand pushing the escaped hairs away from her eyes. “Best two outta three?”

“You’re so on,” he laughs, holding his hand back out for her to take.

It’s a tougher match the second time around, and Scarlett finally decides she will not accept anything less than success even if it means she has to get her hands dirty. Her free hand comes flying up and wraps around his, pulling even harder. “Hey!” he shouts in protest. “No fucking fair!”

Scarlett just laughs, putting forth every ounce of strength she has to bring his arm down.

Jeremy adds his other hand to the mix and she squeals in protest. “Hey!”

“You cheated first!”

The two of them are desperate to get the other to cave, and finally Scarlett gets both of his hands sandwiched between her own and the floor. “Ha!”

She releases his hands and lets her own momentum of rolling to the side carry her over until she lands flat on her back. She stares up at the ceiling, limbs spread out in every direction as she catches her breath. “God,” she laughs. Her head tilts to the side to get a glimpse of him, lying flat on his stomach with his own arms out in front of him. “I never thought you’d give up.”

His head lifts only to shoot her a glare. “That doesn’t count.”

“Oh yeah? I thought it was the best two outta three. That was only two.”

“Give me five seconds to catch my breath and I will be glad to repeat my performance of kicking your ass.”

“That what you call that?”

“I call it being a troublemaker.” Scarlett looks straight up again at the sound of a third voice thrown into the mix; Eric’s face is silhouetted by the harsh white lights of the gym as he stares down at her.

She grins widely at him almost on instinct in getting busted, eyes full of her guilt. “What are we gonna do with the two of you?” Eric asks rhetorically.

“Appreciate us for not taking our competitiveness to the racks?” she proposes hopefully, voice cracking.

“That’s only a matter of time, I’m sure,” Eric muses, offering her his hand to pull her back to her feet. “Since this is just us getting started.”

Jeremy and Scarlett exchange looks, a decided sort of agreement between them that _yes_, this is just the beginning of what is to come.

That night, she and Sean are sitting at his dining room table, her feet comfortably resting in his lap as they sip on the cocktails he’s fixed for them. “Are you excited?” he asks. Her lips are busy, wrapped around a glass, so she shrugs in reply as he runs one of his hands up her calf. “You talk about it enough.”

Her face scrunches up in uncertainty. “I do?”

“You do.”

“Guess it’s me just trying to manifest a good experience or something,” she reasons.

“Well, even if it winds up a flaming disaster, it at least sounds like you’re having fun.”

“Oh, yes,” she nods in agreement, sitting up a little straighter. “Nothing more fun than pulled muscles and sweating through your underwear.”

His eyebrows arch suggestively. “Nothing?”

She smirks, bringing her glass back up to her lips. “Well…if you’re offering, I could be persuaded_._”

Time disappears and before she knows it, they’re a week out from beginning filming. Production leaves it up to everyone to make their own travel arrangements. With the sheer amount of luggage that she’s got to her name, Scarlett decides it is best for everyone if she flies private.

Flying private means Sean can send her off to New Mexico without raising alarms that will bring the cameras out in unholy droves. He drives her to Van Nuys, and they have a brief moment to themselves in the parking lot while her bags are checked and boarded onto the plane by employees.

“You’re going to be fantastic,” he tells her with his usual half-smile, body leaned against the opened car door.

The wind tangles her hair as it blows thin ribbons of red into her eyes, Sean reaching up to tuck them behind her ear. “Thanks,” she mutters somewhat sheepishly, unable to decipher if it’s for the compliment or the clearing of her vision.

They haven’t really talked about what her leaving means for them, mostly because they _don’t_ talk. From casually seeing each other in February to moving straight into hookup territory by March and all the moments in between, there has been no real groundbreaking discussion about anything that pertains to them being a them. There’s not much of a them, if she’s being perfectly honest with herself. It’s him and her, doing whatever it is that two freshly divorced people (who have really great sex) do.

She’s not naïve about where they’re headed, either. Sure, they’re enjoying one another’s company, but in the few months they’ve been wining and dining each other, there has been no real change in anything. No leap forward, no scramble back. No commitment, no cutting strings. They have an expiration date written all over them, that day a handful of lottery numbers that Scarlett’s slowly scratching with a quarter and waiting with bated breath to see revealed.

Today doesn’t seem to be it, though, because Sean doesn’t say anything that would make her think they’re ending it now that she’s leaving for five months. He doesn’t even tell her goodbye for now.

Instead he says, “Call any time,” and then she’s brushing against him in a halfway hug on the way to the stairs.

He lets her go, and when she stops halfway up the stairs of the plane to look over her shoulder at him, he’s already back inside the car.

She kisses LA goodbye and doesn’t even think to wave out the window to Sean until she’s already up in the clouds.

* * *

**MESSAGES**  
Jeremy Renner

Tuesday, April 19th

Help. Am drowning in boxes

Haha! Doesn’t sound like a very glamorous  
way to go out

Can you be bribed with beer and buffalo wings  
to come help a girl out?

Are you already in Albuquerque?

Yes

Aren’t you?

No

Oh no

Did they recast you after learning I kicked your  
ass beyond all hope and repair in training?

You’re hilarious

Unfortunately for you, I’m still in it

Had some business stuff I had to finish up here  
in LA, so I won’t be heading down until Thurs

…principal photography starts on Monday, dude

Thank you, I do have access to a calendar

I thought I was pushing it

Thanks for giving me perspective

Anything for you, Johansson!

So that’s a no on helping me unpack?

Unfortunately, it is a hell no

But you can help me unpack? :)

Unfortunately, it is a hell no

Sorry Renner – I only scratch the backs of those  
who scratch mine!

You’re the devil

Can’t disagree

I’m only kidding

I can be bribed with beer and buffalo wings

I was messing with you, Red, not gonna  
make you help unpack my shit

Now Chris squared on the other hand…  
totally different story!

I wanna be there when you put those two  
to work

You’ll have front row seating, promise

This is why we’re friends

It is? I thought it was because of my charm

Whatever helps you sleep at night, handsome ;)

Wednesday, April 20th

Chris says hello

He also says, and I quote: “Renner! Where  
the fuck are you? Get your ass here NOW before  
I’m forced to do something dramatic”

Although I don’t know why he’s acting as though  
he never does anything dramatic, his legal name  
IS in fact Christopher Drama Queen Evans

I hope and pray your rental is nicer than Chris’s

Tell Chris hi!

Why does my rental need to be nicer than his?  
Guarantee he makes more money than me

There was a roach. It was disgusting.

Roaches? We’re filming a multi-million dollar  
movie. We should not have to dwell with the  
roaches

Tell whoever found these properties for us that

Chris: “If the roaches want to live here, that’s fine,  
but they better pay me three months worth of rent.  
No free loading allowed”

Hahahahahahaha!

Guess I’ll be picking up some RoachBGone  
on my way in tomorrow

Better safe than sorry!

What’s your schedule looking like?

Leaving LA at 9am, flying in. Should land somewhere  
around 10 Albuquerque time

How up for visitors will you be?

Who are my visitors?

If it’s the roaches, then not at all

The visitors are me, myself, my red hair and I

Also maybe some of our other co-workers. No  
roaches

Unless that’s your pet name for someone, in which  
case it’s a maybe?

In what universe would someone give someone  
else the pet name of “Roach” other than a psychopath?

I don’t know what you’re into!

Jesus Christ, Red

If you and all your personalities are visiting, sure!  
Just give me a chance to erase the jet lag

Jet lag? The fuck are you talking about?  
It’s a 2 hour plane ride

I don’t fly well, LEAVE ME ALONE

Okay grandpa Renner, will let you get in  
your nap before I start knocking down your door

Grandpa???? I’m old but not that old, sweetheart

I heard your bones crack the other day when we  
were wrestling. You’re old

I revoke my invitation, you’re not allowed over

:(

Have fun hanging out with Chris and his roach roomies

I will

Maybe one of the roaches will serve as your double

You’re hurtful

You misspelled wonderful

Did I though?

Yes

I’m old and you’re wonderful: the lies of us

I’m not a liar

That’s right, you’re the human polygraph, that’s  
how you qualified for the Avengers

I am sensing sarcasm so I will be returning  
to Chris and the roaches

Have fun!

I will!

See you tomorrow?

Expected nothing less!

Thursday, April 21st

I hate LAX.

I hate it so much.

If I’m not there by Monday, you’ll know it’s  
because I am WALKING to avoid this bullshit

Landed!

Got to the house! Call before you come over –  
am planning to take a nap. Say NOTHING about it. 

* * *

Scarlett does as Jeremy asks and calls before she comes over. She calls from the driver’s seat of her rental car that is sitting stationary on the curb of his front yard, craning her neck in every position imaginable to try and catch a glimpse of movement through the windows of the house while feeling every bit like the stalker she probably is.

It takes three rings for him to pick up, the line slicing right through the fourth and final ring that separates her and his voicemail as it connects. “Hello?” he grumbles into his receiver. His voice is groggy, as though she’s caught him in the middle of a dead sleep.

“Hey,” she draws out somewhat melodically. “You up from your nap, Sleeping Beauty?” Part of her fears that he wasn’t, but the other part of her argues that it is almost four o’clock and a nap any later in the day is just considered going to bed early.

“Ha, ha. Very funny.” There’s shuffling on the other end of the line before he speaks again, this time much clearer. “It was a truly invigorating nap.”

“Invigorating.” She pulls the word apart slowly as though she’s sounding it out, nodding to herself. “Five syllables. That a record for you?”

“I will lock the door and refuse to let you in,” he avows.

“Renner, I grew up in Brooklyn. I am no stranger to scaling a wall and shimmying my ass through a window.”

“You are a terrifying woman.”

“I take it as a compliment.”

“As you should.”

“So, I suppose I’d be right in assuming that you are up and moving.”

Jeremy forcefully exhales, resulting in the hybrid of a laugh and a scoff. “I’m not talented enough to answer the phone in my sleep.”

“Hey, I don’t know that. I hear I’m the topic of many wild dreams – want me to tell you what I’m wearing? That’ll confirm or deny the theory.”

“Alright,” he laughs. “Cool it down there, hot sauce.”

Her eyes are still fixed across the lawn, attempting to decipher the shadows and silhouettes she can see inside the house from her distance. “I was just calling to see if you were still up for that company,” she explains.

“Depends, you still offering?”

She smiles, even if he wouldn’t be able to make acknowledgement of it unless he was staring at her through some window with a pair of binoculars. “Only if you want me.”

“My house is still kinda in disarray,” Jeremy confesses.

“There’s no judgment. I have taken to creating modern art in my living room with the luggage.”

“Now that’s an idea,” he encourages. “I’ll see you in a little while, then?”

“Yep,” she responds. That is the extent of their goodbye, the line cutting short as Scarlett tosses her phone over into the passenger seat where her purse sits. Her keys follow suit in a swift yank from the ignition.

Let it never be said that her confidence is in any jeopardy of wilting.

The sky is a gauzy sort of blue when Scarlett kicks open the door of her car and steps out, dry New Mexico air bristling past her as the wind sends another breeze down the street. Production’s set up everyone in principal cast in fully-furnished rentals, spread out based upon the landlord’s availabilities. She’s two doors down from Chris Evans (what a surprise, she thinks) and down the street from Tom Hiddleston. Cobie Smulders and Clark Gregg are somewhere in her little neighborhood as well. Jeremy, Chris Hemsworth, Mark, and Robert are in another area of town entirely. The houses must all vary in their size; the ones in this neighborhood appear to be designed for single families, not much of an existing front or back yard due to the proximity between properties.

She skips up the single step that separates the sidewalk from his front door, sauntering forward and poking what seems to resemble the doorbell upon her location of it. There is no faint sound within the walls of its ringing, so she doubles up for good measure and raps a short, three-knock pattern into the wood. She rocks back on her heels while she waits, hands locking behind her back in manner similar to that of a child’s. Her head tips to the side in attempt to peek through the small paneling of windows at what the situation indoors looks like from up close and she is met with nothing more than ambiguous shadows.

Suddenly there’s a clicking noise and the door draws back from its frame to reveal Jeremy. One hand is wrapped around the door’s edge, his body leaned up against it as his eyes fall directly on her. They drift towards the ground before back up at her in a sweeping once-over, a blank look of surprise wiped across his face. “I’m still asleep,” he deduces monotonously. “There’s no way you’re actually here.”

“Looks like someone lied about being awake,” she teases off of one look at him in his slightly rumpled Guns n’ Roses t-shirt, mussed hair and green eyes still glassed over with sleep.

“I honestly don’t believe that I am.”

“Want me to pinch you?” she offers innocently.

His face falls. “No thanks.”

Scarlett gives a succinct nod forward, Jeremy responding by pulling the door all the way back so he’s clear of her path when she breezes right past him and into the house. “Seriously,” he continues. “Did you grow wings and fly? Do you have something magic in your pocket?”

“Is that some kind of euphemism?” she asks with a scrunched-up expression of distaste, spinning back around on her heels so they are faced towards one another. “Because if it is, I’m not impressed.”

“No, it’s a genuine question.” The door is pushed back into place, Jeremy twisting the deadbolt behind himself. “We _just_ got off of the phone.”

“You asked if I’d see you in a little while. Little.”

“_While_,” he whines in retaliation.

“Whatever. I’m here. Surprise.”

“And here I thought you’d give me at least thirty minutes to set up a game of Jenga in the living room with all of my suitcases.”

An apologetic smile curls over her lips. “Sorry.”

“’S okay.”

“You’ve got a nice place,” she comments, glancing around the foyer and into other rooms through the small windows that open doors and archways provide. “Had any roaches yet?”

“No,” he sighs defeatedly. “But I’m sure that you’ve gone right ahead and spoken that into existence.”

“Chris has plenty of roach spray that you can borrow if the time comes. He claims he’s investing. Might even buy stock.”

“When Scar; you’ve turned if into when.” Her smile only grows – she’s lying to herself if she says she doesn’t enjoy tugging on his strings and feeling the pressure of his reciprocation. “Want the tour?” Jeremy asks, rubbing at the back of his neck before gesturing outwards.

“Sure.”

He takes the lead, walking her slowly through the house. It looks similar to hers in the sense that the furniture and décor are bare bones, and luggage inhabits all random corners of the rooms. The first floor is the living room, kitchen, and breakfast area – there is also an empty room that could suffice as a dining room or an office or whatever purpose one would need it to serve. Currently, its purpose is to hold a step-ladder and cans of paint.

They end their tour in the kitchen, Jeremy standing on the opposite side of the island while Scarlett backs up against the counter. “Want something to drink?” he offers, opening up the fridge and peering inside. He stills almost immediately – she tries to look around him, and while she doesn’t get the best look, the promise is bare – before turning back around. “I have tap water.”

She smirks. “No time to go pick up groceries?”

“There’s stuff in there,” he insists.

Both her eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”

“Baking soda.”

“Doesn’t count.”

The refrigerator door cracks back open as he steals another glance over his shoulder. “And a lime.”

It’s hard to resist the laugh that builds in her throat. “I am taking you to a grocery store so we aren’t at risk of you starving.”

“I’m not totally helpless,” he mutters under his breath, and all it does is perk up her smile.

“Where are you sleeping?” she asks casually. “I didn’t see any air mattress in that empty room.”

“Bedrooms are upstairs,” is his cut-and-dry response. Judging by the way he brushes her off, she is quick to assume that those rooms are not a part of the tour. “How’s your place?”

She shrugs. “It’s okay.”

“Just okay?”

“It’s not horrible.” If anything, it’s pretty nice, especially considering they’ll only be there for a few months and it is so much better than living in a hotel or an apartment. However, she hasn’t spent more than three nights in the same bed in months, and she’s done her best to make sure she’s not alone in any of them. She doesn’t sleep through the night much anymore, and waking up in a state of disorient and not really knowing where she’s at isn’t the most comforting feeling to have. “It’s just…a place,” she finishes lamely.

Jeremy doesn’t push it beyond that. “As long as it’s a place I can crash in kind reciprocation to this.”

“I’d be sad if you didn’t.”

They drift back to the living room so Jeremy can resume sifting through his luggage. Scarlett offers to help but very quickly realizes that he unpacks in a way that she finds utterly unproductive – he opens suitcases, dumps out all of their contents into the growing pile of shit on the floor, then tosses the suitcase to another growing pile of luggage in another corner of the room before moving onto the next one. She retires to the couch, stretching out and supervising his process until even the mere sight of the clutter drives her right into her text messages.

“Do you not have any breakables in there?” she asks at one point, not even bothering to glance up from the screen of her phone.

“I flew commercial, Red. Not even bubble wrap would have spared the breakable things.”

“Tell me, how exactly are you planning to go from here?”

“Well,” he says, straightening up and resting his hands on his hips. “I have to see everything first before I can decide what goes where. This is the easiest way to see everything.”

“Mm,” she hums, biting her tongue as to not go and challenge logic she clearly thinks is flawed and turns back to the text she’s been composing for the last five minutes.

“Who’s that?” he asks, in reference to the person that she’s furiously typing away to. “Your boyfriend?”

Scarlett rolls her eyes. “Don’t have a boyfriend,” she answers shortly. Jeremy scoffs in utter disbelief. “I’m texting the Chrises.”

“Why?”

Her line of sight lifts for a brief moment, eyebrows arched. “You mean to tell me you want us to try and move all of this shit?” With the hand still wrapped around her phone, she gives a general sweeping gesture.

“I was just kidding when I said we’d have them do it.”

“I wasn’t.” She breaks out into a half smile. “Besides, they got my place in check in a third of the time that it would have taken me.”

Jeremy’s quiet for a moment as he scopes her out, before responding, “You’re going to text them regardless of what I tell you, aren’t you?”

The smile she gives him is all the answer he needs, and he flops down on the couch in resignation next to her while she finishes up her message. 

It takes about a half hour for Chris and Chris to show up on Jeremy’s door. Scarlett goes to answer it, Evans’ eyebrows up shooting into his hairline at the sight of her. “Damn, are you two roomies?” is the first thing out of his mouth, suggestiveness laced in his tone.

Scarlett’s face remains in a deadpan. “Go get to work.”

Evans rolls his eyes as he brushes past her.

Hemsworth, on the other hand, smiles brightly at her. “Hey, Scarlett,” he says, opening his arms for a hug. “Good to see ‘ya.”

“You too.” She has decided she likes Hemsworth, maybe even more than Evans. He doesn’t make it his life’s mission to push every last button she has.

“So, what’s the situation?” he asks. “He anything like you?”

Scarlett shuts the door behind them, waiting for him to kick his shoes off next to her own and Evans’ by the door so she can guide him to the living room. “I like to think I was the farthest thing from a problem client. He, on the other hand, is a disaster.”

“Heavy?”

“Messy.”

She gets the feeling he doesn’t really believe her, not until he sees it for himself. Jeremy and Evans are standing over the giant pile of stuff in the living room when they join them. “Well, alright,” Evans finally says after studying it. “It’s not horrible.”

“Speak for yourself,” Hemsworth chimes in. “It’s just a giant heap of shit.”

Evans looks up from aforementioned pile. “Well, at least now we know what we’re working with.”

Jeremy thrusts both arms out in direction of the mountain of his belongings. “Thank you!” he cries in exasperation, thankful to have someone who understands him.

It’s then that Scarlett knows she’s screwed: Jeremy and Evans being cut from the same cloth is not going to bode well for her blood pressure. The only silver lining is that Hemsworth looks just as baffled as she does.

Evans claps his hands twice before diving right into the thick of things. He and Jeremy seem to be operating on the same wavelength, working their way through the pile and determining where it’s going to go before moving it to new, smaller piles. Hemsworth does as he’s told and questions none of his orders. Scarlett helps up until they’re ready to start taking the new, smaller piles into different rooms of the house and then she taps out, making herself useful in the department of Googling nearby pizza places since if they are counting on Jeremy to feed them, they will starve.

“What kind of pizza do you boys want?” she calls from the kitchen once she finds a place, hoisting her body up onto the counter as she dangles forward.

Hemsworth’s entire upper body is obstructed by the massive pile of clothes Evans and Jeremy have dumped into his arms. “I don’t care,” he replies, voice muffled by the barrier of fabric. “I’ll eat whatever.”

“Same,” Evans replies – she knows that much. He’s a human vacuum and has been since he was a teenager. “I will request that you get like, six orders of the crazy bread, though.”

Scarlett squints. “Who says I’m ordering food from somewhere that’s got crazy bread?”

“If they serve pizza, then they serve some kind of bread,” he counters.

“And if it’s not of the crazy variety?”

“Then you’ll drive it that way, I’m sure,” he teases, shooting her an overexaggerated wink.

“Okay, so that’s no food for Evans, Hemsworth is good for whatever, how ‘bout you, Renner?”

“Aw, c’mon,” Evans whines. Scarlett ignores him, purposefully keeping her attention on Jeremy.

He shrugs. “Get whatever you want.”

“Um, no,” Evans protests petulantly. “She’s on the fucking bird food diet.” 

“Birds can’t eat pizza,” she retorts.

“Yes they can! It’s made outta fuckin’ bread!”

Scarlett’s middle finger goes flying up in retaliation, to which Evans scoffs at before stomping off behind Hemsworth to make sure he doesn’t skip a step and give himself a concussion.

“Seriously,” she says once it’s just her and Jeremy, her voice evening out. “Nothing in particular you’re feeling?”

“Doesn’t make a difference to me.”

“Oh, what? Were you planning to live off of that lime?”

He just laughs as he bends down, moving a few things from his bedroom pile to what she thinks is the bathroom pile. “Red, you’d die if I told you how I used to live.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll leave ‘ya to it.”

She calls and orders a couple pizzas – and the fucking crazy bread, which she fully plans to pretend she didn’t order just to agitate Evans even further – and is told to wait about twenty minutes before coming to pick it up. She decides to kill her time sitting on Jeremy’s couch, watching as the two Chrises come downstairs, load Hemsworth up like some kind of pack mule, and then retreat back up the stairs. And then repeat the process, over and over again.

The junk from the suitcases eventually disappears off of the living room floor, and then Jeremy begins intently looking at the layout of the furniture while the Chrises stand hunched over, taking advantage of their break to catch their breath.

“You think the couch would look better on that wall?” Jeremy verbalizes his train of thought for the room, pointing ahead.

Evans glares up at him. “Did she tell you we were moving furniture too?”

Every eye snaps over to Scarlett, who glances up from her phone at the weight of people’s sights burning into her. “What?” she asks innocently. “I just said you guys were efficient. I didn’t say what your services did or did not include.”

“Well, if we’re having to move the couch, you’re getting up,” Evans informs her.

“Oh, what, Captain America can’t pick up a couch with a woman sitting on it? How else do you expect the housewives of America to drop their panties for ‘ya?” She sits up a little taller, flipping her ponytail for emphasis. “Two of you move the couch, the other gets a giant palm leaf and fans me – I mean, I’m loving this scenario more and more by the second.”

“Have I ever told you how much you fuckin’ suck?” Evans laments.

“Dunno, but you’ve muttered it under your breath at least seventy-six times since we got here,” Hemsworth mutters in observation.

Scarlett rests a hand over her heart as she looks at Evans. “Chrissy, I’m touched.”

“See, this is what you get to look forward to when you work with this one,” Evans tells them, walking up behind the arm of the couch Scarlett’s back is pressed against. He quickly darts out and pulls her into a headlock, the arm not around her neck resting on top of her head and messing her hair up. “A whole lotta bark.”

“Get…off me,” she squeals, both hands trying to pry him off her. “I will bite you.”

“I’m sure you will,” Evans laughs. He doesn’t move an inch, letting Scarlett thrash around until she finally manages to push him off of her and duck underneath his arm. “Our lovely costar here wants us to use the Hulk strength we don’t have to move his couch, and I’m still feeling like playing nice, so get up.”

Scarlett obliges begrudgingly, if only to avoid being put in yet another headlock.

“Speaking of Hulks, I think it’s only fair we call the others over to participate in this shit show,” Hemsworth pipes up. “Costar bonding. Joss would shed a tear.”

They all exchange looks, Scarlett shrugging. “I ordered enough pizza for it,” she says.

“Renner?” Evans asks, looking down the length of the couch to where Jeremy is standing.

“Sure,” he says. “Bring ‘em on.”

That’s how Scarlett finds herself texting impromptu invitations with very extensive directions to everyone else in the cast that she’s got phone numbers for, telling them that there’s pizza on the way and that they’re more than welcome to come crash what has suddenly evolved into a party. (Hemsworth insists that she includes in the message that in order to eat, everyone must be willing to move at least one piece of Renner’s furniture, but she nixes that from the text.)

Robert and Mark show up right about the time that Scarlett’s pulling herself together to walk out of the door and get their food.

“You leaving already, Red?” Robert pouts. “Party just got here.”

“I’m going to get the food, lest we all starve. All Renner’s got in his fridge is a singular lime.”

“Are you still giving my lime shit?” Jeremy asks as he appears out of seemingly nowhere.

“I’m throwing it out at first given opportunity,” Scarlett promises.

“That might be my emotional support lime, and here you are making fun of me for it,” he sniffs playfully.

“Emotional support or not, there’s no way all of us could split a single lime. I’ll gladly let you leave if it’s for that good of a cause,” Robert permits, sliding out of the doorway and gesturing towards the door.

“Thank you for your permission,” she expresses with feigned gratuity oversaturating her voice, nudging him in the shoulder as she passes him to get to her shoes.

“Need a hand going to get it?” Jeremy asks her, standing close by and watching as she slips on her Converse. She glances up as she works the back of the shoe over her heel, red hair falling in her eyes.

“You tellin’ me you’re trusting all of them in your house unsupervised?” Her eyebrows lift quizzically as she adds, “After you had them move the couch? _Three times?_”

“Look, I’m picky. It’s not like Evans and Hemsworth are toothpicks.” She gives him that, conceding with the slight tip of her head. “Just doesn’t feel fair to make you go get everything all by yourself.”

“I promise I’m more capable than I look,” she assures. She stands up a little straighter, pushing her hair back. “But yeah, the company would be nice.”

Jeremy smiles, easily the biggest smile she’s seen out of him all day. “Let me go grab my keys,” he says.

She lingers by the door, hand curved around the handle while she waits. The conversation from the other room is bubbling over, it impossible to tune out.

“Move it to the _left!”_

“I am!”

“Not that left, your _other _left!”

“THE RIGHT, THEN.”

Jeremy comes striding back through the small hallway of the foyer with his shoes on, jacket on his shoulders, and keys swinging off of his index finger. “Are you sure you don’t wanna stay and make sure they don’t knock a hole in your wall?” she asks dubiously.

“It’ll be fine.” He tips his head in direction of the door. “If they break it, it won’t come outta my pocket.”

“If you say so.”

“Onwards we go, Johansson.”

The night is clear, the air much cooler than just a few hours ago as it rolls past. Jeremy unlocks the rental truck that’s sitting in the driveway, walking around to the opposite side while Scarlett climbs up into the passenger seat.

“I did not peg you as a truck person,” she informs him as he gets in, shutting the door behind him and jamming the keys into the ignition.

“Oh yeah?”

“Porsche…truck…it’s not exactly painting the same picture.”

The engine rumbles to life, all of the lights switching on in the cab for a brief moment before they shut out again, radio stirring awake. “You got the directions to this place?” Jeremy asks.

Scarlett waves her phone for emphasis, Jeremy nodding as he puts the car into reverse and slowly creeps down the driveway. 

The roads aren’t crowded, and Scarlett can’t decipher if it’s just because it’s a weeknight, if she’s purposefully sent them on the path furthest from civilization, or if this is just the reality of the situation they’re in. Jeremy keeps the radio on a rock station, everything from Metallica to Bon Jovi to Def Leppard. She knows most of the songs that come on the air, humming or singing them under her breath so he can concentrate on the directions her phone is presenting to him.

“Will you be offended if I say that I didn’t expect you to like this kind of music?”

“What did you think I’d like?” she asks, tucking her hair behind her ears before tilting the phone back in his direction.

One of his shoulders bends in a shrug. “Jazz.”

“I do like jazz. Probably too much,” she confesses.

“So I wasn’t totally off.”

“No, but I am a nineties kid. I can do circles around House of Pain.”

He groans, head hitting his headrest with a thud_._ “Jesus, I forgot you were that young.”

“I’m not _that_ young,” she insists.

“Next to me, you are.”

“You’re only…what? Mid-thirties?”

He snorts. “Ha, try forties.”

She leans over the console a little closer to him, whispering conspiratorially. “You’re already over the hill, Renner?”

“Shh,” he hisses, swatting at the air with his hand. “If you don’t say it out loud, then I don’t have to acknowledge it.”

“Sorry, sorry,” she laughs, leaning back into her seat. “I’ll be sure to lie right to your face next time. And take it easier on you when we start stunts – we can’t have you breaking a bone. Won’t heal like it used to.”

She erupts into laughter at her own fucking comment, Jeremy just shaking his head. “You’ll see,” he avows. “One of these days.”

“Okay,” she chokes out amidst her laughs, reaching over to turn the volume dial on his radio.

Jeremy goes in with her to pay for the pizzas – and suggests that they add a case of beer to their order, slapping it up on the counter next to the stack of pizza boxes and two-liters she’d already picked out when calling it in. As she pays, she can feel the weight of the cashier’s eyes burning into the top of her head now that they’re no longer making eye contact and they think they’ve gotten a second to think. Scarlett’s not a complete idiot. She knows that with the red hair, she’s kind of a sore thumb. It’s how the game goes: no one thinks it’s actually her, so they resort to staring at her until she’s gone before deciding that yes, it was her, and then they take to Facebook in spreading such news. She acts like she’s none the wiser, completely oblivious to the thoughts that may as well be scrolling straight through their irises in black and white font.

She leaves a tip, though, and grabs the pizzas while Jeremy reaches for the drinks. “Have a good night,” the cashier says kindly, and Scarlett reciprocates with a thin-lipped smile.

She sits all of the pizza in her lap on the drive back to Jeremy’s house, hugging it towards her stomach to keep it from jostling around as he makes what feels like six left turns in the course of a quarter mile.

There are more cars parked outside of Jeremy’s when they return to the house and pull in through the driveway. “God, who all did you invite?” Jeremy asks her, the joking edge fortunately present in his voice (it still makes her cheeks go a little red).

“Just everybody I had a phone number for.”

“Did that include the Pope?”

Once they have everything balanced and secure enough to make it across the several feet between the truck and the front door, they amble up the step. Jeremy uses his foot to kick at the door until someone comes to answer it.

Robert responds, pulling it open and then quickly shuffling out of the way to make room for them. “Pizza’s here!” he calls out into the house.

“Jesus _fuck_, Scarlett,” Evans swears as he comes into sight. “Were you planning to feed the five thousand this evening?”

“Well, I wasn’t gonna let Renner starve,” she fires back, balancing all of the pizzas on her arms as she beelines straight for the kitchen.

“How much did that cost ‘ya?”

“Wouldn’t know, I used your card,” she says nonchalantly. Evans looks utterly scandalized at this revelation, immediately scrambling to reach in back in his pocket for his wallet.

So gullible, she thinks to herself.

She and Jeremy and Hemsworth – because really, god bless that man and his desire to be helpful – get everything situated in the kitchen, and as reward for setting it up, they take the first pick at everything. The three of them squeeze onto the couch and balance their plates and beers on their knees, everyone else either taking to the floor or lingering in the kitchen where they can at least stand over a solid surface.

They eat, they laugh, and it all vaguely reminds Scarlett of the filming experiences where she was surrounded by actors her own age on location. Or a high school party. It feels like a slight step above high school, but she didn’t go to college, so she doesn’t have any real frame of reference for it. With people milling around and eating pizza, swept up in their own stories and conversations, the only thing that she thinks is missing that would really make it a party is a speaker set up and sending the vibrations of a bass-heavy song through the floor.

And someone dancing on a coffee table.

She will not be the one to play that part. (Tonight, anyways.)

Eventually she slips away from the conversation to go throw her things away in the kitchen, back pressed against the island as she sips on her beer and observes the scene unfolding in a quiet moment of inspection. She notices someone joining her out of the corner of her eye, glancing over only briefly to see Jeremy modeling his own body language after hers.

The rate in which she’s gotten comfortable with him is unprecedented if she allows herself to think about it. It’s not that surprising, though – in all the years that they’ve been familiar faces painted in the backgrounds of each other’s lives, up until recently when their being friendly was as predictable as a seven-day weather forecast due to the ever-convenient factor of circumstance, it feels inevitable in some ways. And if it’s going to be inevitable, she’s at least glad that he’s good company.

So they stand there, shoulders just barely brushing as they continue drinking and watch out into the living room through the gaping arch the wall creates over the bar.

“Can I be honest with you?” Jeremy says suddenly, lowering his voice to reflect the seriousness of whatever it is he’s about to confide in her.

“Sure.” She wraps her lips back around the rim of her bottle, tipping it back.

“I feel like this is all gonna be a shit show,” he confesses. Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, and Jeremy motions outward towards the living room with his own bottle as reference. She nods.

“Just these guys, or…?”

“Whole fuckin’ thing. Don’t get me wrong, they’re great and everything, but how the hell is this movie supposed to work and work _well?” _He shakes his head. “Too many moving parts to me. Don’t see how we’re gonna pull it off.”

“Can I be honest with you?” she spins back around on him, and he nods. “I think it’s gonna be a total disaster, too.”

It’s not that she doesn’t have faith in what they’re creating. The contract she signed kind of demands it from her, but she doesn’t like working on something that she doesn’t really believe in. It won’t push her, it won’t give her the kind of pavement underneath her feet that she needs to run on. So far, it’s demanded a lot out of her and she’s liked that about it, but there are so many more logistics beyond her little piece of the puzzle. It’s like Jeremy says: there are so many moving parts, maybe even too many, that she worries that it’s not going to work.

There’s something thrilling about being in an inaugural sort of film, the first of its kind, but for all of the novel excitement, there is plenty of fear to boot.

The last thing she wants is to be masturbatory material _and_ a laughingstock. She’s come too fucking far for that.

“What about them?” Jeremy asks quietly. “You know what they’re thinking?”

“Not really. I’d think they’re a little crazy if they blindly believe we’re gonna make a masterpiece or something.”

“You said it,” he says by way of agreement, bringing his bottle up to his mouth and taking a long drink from it.

“We’ll stick it out, though?” she asks carefully, glancing over at him. “You and me?”

He smiles, just the corners of his lips picking up and etching the lines around his mouth deeper into his skin. “I got your back, Red,” he promises.

Even if it is a little juvenile, finding reassurance in not being alone, she takes it appreciatively with her own small half-smile in his direction. “And I yours.”

She tips the neck of her bottle in his direction, and he gladly clinks it against his own in solidarity. 


	6. don't have any reasons, left them all behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ......alright, SO, i know it's been a month, but in all fairness, the month of february felt like it lasted for a grand total of 2.5 MINUTES! between job things, school things, celebrating my 22nd birthday, and just generally trying not to fall apart in the remaining 5 seconds of free time that i have each day, the fact i've made it to the other side is a success in and of itself, lol. and then, in the midst of all of the recovering, This happens. can't catch a break, can we, ladies? there's a silver lining to everything, though, and the one silver lining i have is that i am fortunate enough to be in a position where i am social distancing at home with not much to worry about other than staying healthy. i have made nowhere near the progress i've wanted to with this story ever since i started it, mostly because of life interference (and me wanting to make this Absolutely Perfect) and this feels like the perfect time to just dive in deep and resurface whenever life in the outside world can resume. so, thank you from the bottom of my heart for those of you who have stuck with me through all of the waiting, because i appreciate it more than you'll ever know and i am here to do my best to make all the waits worth it. feel free to stick everything out with me and escape back to 2011! 
> 
> chapter title is from billy joel's 'new york state of mind' which, if you know...then YOU KNOW. i'm on twitter @emswifts where i will joyously annoy you with my plans to overthrow marcel as scarlett's publicist and launch us forward into a brave new world. love you guys. please stay safe and healthy, and check in if you can. i like knowing that you're doing alright! happy reading xx

Some things happen during the first week of principal photography, and ironically enough, none of them have anything to do with running lines or filming a scene.

The first thing is that Scarlett makes good on her promise in taking Jeremy to a grocery store, because there is a nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach that tells her if she doesn’t physically witness him buy food, he’s not going to and will starve. That’s not something she can live with on her conscience. He has the nerve to compare himself to the dozens of cacti on the side of the road that they pass on their way to the store – “I’m like a human cactus, Red; they can go months without being watered, and I can go months without eating three square meals a day.” – and she responds in kind by hitting him in the head with the printed out directions to the studio that now live in her cupholder.

Jeremy does not do much in terms of reassuring her about anything. Really, it just leaves her feeling more obliged than ever to step up and mother hen him. She kind of hates it, too.

Evans tags along on said trip like the freeloader Scarlett has always known him to be, sitting in the backseat after Scarlett’s last-minute trip back to her neighborhood to pick him up and aid in his desire to get out of the house. He and Jeremy are both wearing baseball caps and sunglasses; at first, it had been innocent enough, but she quickly learned that there was no normal explanation for it. That’d simply make _too_ much sense, after all. Evans, for some reason, is running on the notion that someone is going to oust them in Whole Foods and summon the swarm of locusts that are the paparazzi. Scarlett thinks – knows – he’s being paranoid just for the sake of being obnoxious, and Jeremy’s all too eager to join in because he certainly doesn’t give a fuck.

Evans continues pushing his ridiculous agenda by slapping one of his hats on her head backwards while she’s trying to make a very precarious left turn at a stoplight. Physically, it instantly de-ages her back to at least nineteen. It also almost costs them their lives.

When they get to the store, they all split off. Evans abandons them two steps into the door, and Scarlett figures she and Jeremy will cover more ground if they tackle opposite ends of the store and work their way towards the middle.

They meet in the midway point of the coffee aisle after about five minutes of skimming, realize that neither one of them has gotten everything, give up and decide they’ll just comb back through the entire store together.

“You do realize we’re on a diet?” Scarlett finally points out after about three aisles of keeping her mouth shut. Her upper lip curls in disgust as Jeremy throws two bags of miniature powdered donuts into the cart.

“I think I’ve earned these,” he defends.

“By doing what?”

“Lookin’ real pretty,” he croons playfully at her. He then takes a retreating step back to grab a third bag off of the shelf, tossing it in with the others. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

She scoffs. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, I’m that too.”

Scarlett shakes her head. “You’re gonna regret all those powdered donuts once it turns into a chase for our lives and I outrun you.”

“Who is making us run for our lives?” he sputters bewilderedly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Scarlett feigns thoughtfulness. “Maybe the man signing our paychecks and yelling the words ‘action’ and ‘cut’ every three minutes? Just a theory.”

“Your sarcasm,” Jeremy winces, hunching over the cart’s handle as he rests a hand over his chest. “It wounds me, Red.”

She puckers up her lips and blows him a kiss, immediately followed by the roll of her eyes.

“Just because you’re grumpy about your boring diet doesn’t mean you take it out on me and mine,” he continues on. He lifts an arm to pat her on the head patronizingly, purposefully knocking the bill of her hat so that it nearly comes flying off her head.

She quickly stops it from going anywhere, shooting him a glare that Medusa herself would have envied. In her retaliation, she reaches out and smacks the bill of his hat hard enough to force it lower on his head, triumphing over all his efforts to turn away and shield his head with his arms.

“My diet isn’t boring,” she protests as they reach the end of the aisle, exiting it and looping around to start down a new one.

“Yes, it is, Red. It’s super fuckin’ boring – it’s so boring that it is in bed by seven-thirty every night.”

“Not all of us think Cheez Doodles are a party for our taste buds,” she mocks.

“Wouldn’t expect that. They’re a refined taste.”

Scarlett laughs dryly. “Refined, he says.”

Jeremy straightens up, still using his forearms to nudge the cart forwards. “I’m telling you, you’re gonna be miserable for the next four months if you don’t cheat on the diet at least once.”

“What, a day?” she retorts goofily, resulting in a smile from him.

“We’re not gonna leave the store until you pick out at least _one_ bad thing for yourself.” She goes to resist with the slight shake of her head, but he won’t accept. “C’mon, you gotta live a little.”

“I live plenty, thank you.” As long as the word ‘plenty’ is up for interpretation.

He bumps her arm with his elbow. “You know what I mean.”

Under normal circumstances, she would call his bluff and find some way to evade the rather ridiculous request he’s put on her head. However, she has stupidly trusted Jeremy to carry around her car keys since she decided on leaving her purse in the car. The gleam in his eyes tells her that they will start paying rent to the pasta aisle if they have to.

“Does a candy bar at the register count?” she sighs defeatedly.

“Nope,” he replies, popping the ‘p.’ “You’ve got the entire store to find a fuck you to your diet.”

Scarlett’s sights cut down to the cart. “You’ve got the whole cart filled with them.”

“Exactly, so what’s one more? Besides, I’m paying. Take advantage of it, go crazy.”

She coughs out a laugh at that one. If anything, she’s the last person who is going to go crazy; she is clinging to the belief that it’s her sanity keeping them intact. If she goes off the rails, they stand no chance of ever bouncing back from it.

They make it all the way to the other end of the grocery store with a cart full of things appealing to Jeremy’s palate (which, she has concluded, is the hybrid of a six year old’s and a caveman’s) and not a single thing for her, which, to Jeremy, may as well be a capital crime. He’s not going to let her off the hook, either.

“See anything?” he asks for the umpteenth time as she sticks her head in one of the refrigerator doors to grab a block of pepperjack cheese per his request.

“Not really,” she shrugs with indifference. “I don’t really have much of a sweet tooth.”

This is a filthy, dirty lie the size of New Mexico. Her sweet tooth is intense; when in high school, she was no stranger to getting high and then putting a serious dent in a box of Cookie Crisp cereal or any fruit that she could find laying around in the fridge. The cravings for sweet stuff didn’t clear up any with age, either. She still looks back fondly on when Drew brought in a chocolate fountain during the filming of _He’s Just Not That Into You _and she made at least four trips to it while she was on set that day. Nowadays, it manifests itself in an emergency pack of Skittles in her purse at all times and the occasional thought on buying stock in maraschino cherries if ever possible.

Even though she makes good to keep her back turned so he can’t see the obvious liar in her eyes, Jeremy doesn’t seem to buy it. “Doesn’t have to be sweet, sweetheart.”

The weight of his gaze following her around the aisle digs underneath her skin, as if he knows that it’s pushing buttons, and it’s just enough to make her crack. When she goes to pick up some other generic brand junk food on his never-ending list, she picks up a carton of strawberry cheesecake ice cream that’s in the same freezer for herself. She deliberately makes a point of not acknowledging its presence in his cart.

But he notices it, and it pleases him so much that his smile is megawatt. Scarlett can feel it burning a hole in her side. She finds it a little ridiculous that he’s going to count this as a victory; it also means she’s going to have to figure out some way to knock him back down to size later on.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have the opportunity to comment on it, because Evans rounds the corner with a cart stacked high with booze. It reroutes any and all possible trains of thought to the disheartening revelation that she is about to spend her summer in the second-chance frat realm.

Filming isn’t going to distract from it, either, because the actual filming schedule is the single most erratic thing she’s laid eyes on, and she didn’t even get a copy. Joss is going in one and two-week periods due to the sheer magnitude of production, so not being on a filming or training schedule essentially means a miniature vacation. Scarlett is shockingly free for the first week and slated for hardcore stunt training the second, as are a lot of people.

It’s because of this that the next thing is born: the beginning of a chain text message between all of the actors.

Scarlett doesn’t really know how she feels about that one.

But the third thing, the _big _thing as far as Scarlett as concerned, comes on the first Friday night, when Joss has shown some mercy to his actors and let them run free without any movie related responsibilities aside from staying out of jail while production gears up for the week ahead.

She's spending her night in in a truly riveting fashion: on the couch and alone with her strawberry cheesecake ice cream (she’d never tell Jeremy she was glad he out-stubborned her in that decision) and the sound of the television droning at a low hum keeping her company. It’s boring by anyone’s standards, especially her own, and her barely-there attention span is torn from the absent channel flipping when her phone pings with a notification.

**MESSAGES**  
Chris Evans, Jeremy Renner + 5

Friday, April 29th

_Chris Evans  
_Dragon Horn Tavern. 8pm. Be there  
or be square

She leans further back into the arm of the couch, blanket over her legs bunching up near the knees as she opens Safari on her phone and types in the address. Google Maps is difficult to maneuver from there, but she’s able to at least figure out that Evans’s hot spot for the night isn’t too far from their neighborhood, an estimated fifteen-minute drive somewhere off of 556.

Her phone pings again as she tries to get the map to load a little faster, a drop-down box appearing over her search results with a new text message.

**MESSAGES**  
Jeremy Renner

Friday, April 29th

You in?

Inside? Yes. Currently sitting on my  
couch  
[ ATTACHED: https://bit.ly/37LDa5Z ]

Why do you have on socks? And  
a blanket?

I’m cold!

It is 85 degrees outside right now

And?

AND it is not sock/blanket weather  
at ALL!!

Don’t think I see you avoiding  
my question, either.

Let me be cold in PEACE, thank  
you.

And I’m not avoiding your  
question!

Of course you aren’t. You’re just  
diverting my attention from the  
matter at hand.

Okay, fair

Haven’t made up my mind

What are you thinking? Maybe I  
can help you make it – it’s one of  
my many talents, fyi

It is? Lemme go add that  
to your Wiki page real quick.

Kinda want to come hang, also  
kinda don’t want to physically  
move. That age old debate

Ah, yes

Personally, I think you should just  
bite the bullet and come with us

Us?

Believe it or not, I’m in the group  
text thing!

Your sarcasm, grandpa

It wounds me

Hey, don’t use my own words against  
me. Not cool, Johansson.

Seriously though, it’s up to you, but I  
think it’ll be fun. Evans pitched it to me,  
says it’s just drinks and hanging out.  
And if it sucks, then you can just put all  
the blame on me and my stupid ass.  
You lose nothing in this scenario

When did you become Chris’s  
soundboard of bad ideas?

It’s not a bad idea! He just thought  
to ask me, I guess. I dunno. Mind  
reading is NOT one of my talents

You saying that it’s not a  
bad idea is all the proof I need  
in creating my case that the  
two of you becoming buddies  
will be our demise

Oh, gimme a break.

Drinks do sound convincing  
right now, though

They do. They do indeed

C’mon, Red. Quit being lazy and  
come have a fun Friday night with  
us.

This is peer pressure, just  
so you’re aware

Is it working?

Yes

Okay

What time are you leaving your  
place?

Probably in the next 20

Want me to come pick you up?

Nah, it’s outta your way

I don’t mind!

It’s okay! Thanks for the offer 😊

See you in a little bit, I guess!

See you then!!

That’s how Scarlett finds herself running a brush through her hair, trading out her sweatpants for jeans, and behind the wheel at eight-thirty as she does her best to follow screenshots of listed out directions to the Dragon Horn Tavern. She has accepted that if she gets lost in the desert on her way, then it was simply meant to be. It’s the outlook she tries to have on most things, anyways, so this is unsurprisingly no different.

Dragon Horn Tavern is, simply put, a hole in a wall that someone didn’t spend much time building. There is nothing that makes it stand out from the outside; it’s just another nondescript building with a handful of cars jammed in the front lot, and it makes her wonder how in the hell Chris and Jeremy managed to even discover this place’s existence. Scarlett gets there late, of course – if she’s not late then she’s dead – and walks into an equally dark bar searching for a target of literally any familiar face. She’s not being very picky.

There’s a silhouette at the bar that closely resembles Chris Evans and she runs on that assumption, making her way over and mentally bracing herself for being wrong. Once she’s a little closer, though, she’s able to make out facial features. To her relief, it is Chris, accompanied by Hemsworth and Tom. “Hey boys,” she interrupts casually as she slides into the empty place beside Evans, playing the part that she’s been lingering there all along and they’ve merely been none the wiser.

Evans looks down at her, face exploding in delight upon recognition. “Scarly!” he booms loudly over the sound of some twangy rock song that she doesn’t know the name of. He latches his arm around her neck and pulls her in rather forcefully for a hug. 

She pats him on the back in return, thankful once he releases his grip. He’s no longer the scrawny little something-or-other that she’s known for years, especially now that he’s been living and breathing the Captain America workout regimen.

“Whatcha feeling?” he asks her, using his Heineken to gesture for the bartender. “On me.”

“Beer’s fine.”

On the other side of Evans, Hemsworth is sizing her up with a lopsided smirk smacked across his mouth. “Scarly, huh?”

It hasn’t taken very long for Hemsworth’s true colors to come shining through, especially now that everyone’s two weeks in with one another. Her eyes narrow for a brief second, quickly determining that any energy spent defending the nickname or acting like it’s not a big deal will be energy that is frivolously wasted. She lets it roll off her shoulders like water off a duck’s back. “Hey, Tom,” she calls instead, leaning past Evans to see down the bar.

Tom sends a thin-lipped smile her way. “Hi, Scarlett.”

As horrible as it sounds, Tom has made no real lasting impression in her mind, but that’s probably due to the fact he comes across way too polite to be associated with them. Truth be told, she’s a little surprised he’s even here; he strikes her as the type who wouldn’t be out running with the wolves (which is the perfect description for people like Evans, Hemsworth, and Jeremy), but he’s got a pretty stacked history with Hemsworth that suggests otherwise. “Did you get stuck in the unfortunate position of babysitting the Chrises?” she teases.

Tom lets out a polite laugh, while Hemsworth frowns so deeply it forms lines. “Don’t be mean, Scarly,” he chides petulantly.

The quip goes ignored just like the others. “Just you boys?” she asks instead, an elbow planting onto the bar top, talking right through the conversation Evans is having with the bartender. She gets tiny snips of it, and it appears he’s making him recite every beer that they have available.

He’s probably not getting tipped nearly enough.

“Nah,” Hemsworth drawls, flicking his wrist to swirl his glass around. “Downey’s back there holding down the fort with Ruffalo and Renner.”

Jeremy, she anticipated, and Mark was a bit of a wild card but not an overall surprise. Robert being at a bar shocks her, and it is written across her face. “Downey?” she repeats incredulously, in need of verification that her hearing isn’t compromised.

“Yeah,” Hemsworth affirms. “You know him or somethin’?”

The shock coloring her features dissipates and is easily replaced with mild annoyance. “Or something,” she agrees dryly.

Evans then turns around, all but shoving a beer bottle into her hands. “Here ‘ya go, Scarls.”

She takes the Heineken from him, giving it a quick once-over. “What, no draught?”

“Bottle’s cheaper, baby.”

“And so are you, apparently.” Evans sends her a pointed glare, and she stares back at him innocently as she brings the bottle up to her lips. She can hear it now, once all is said and done, that _poor little Scarlett_ wasn’t able to keep up with the boys whenever they went out. While she can’t speak to the others, it is common knowledge between her and Evans both that she can drink him under a table without batting an eyelash.

Scarlett takes a sweeping glance around the rest of the room, lips pursed against the rim of her bottle. “Where’s everybody else?”

Evans throws a thumb over his shoulder in a very general direction that does not help her whatsoever in locating anyone. “Back there.”

It takes everything in her not to cuff him upside the head. “I’ll leave you boys to it, then.” She gives Evans a swift pat on the shoulder with her free hand, letting her hand drag along his back until it runs out of space as she walks by. She can feel three sets of eyes follow her departure back into the bar.

Everything as far as she is concerned is indistinguishable thanks to the total lack of light in the place (she has a fleeting curiosity about what the electricity bill looks like every month); Scarlett is the type to fake it until she makes it, though, and this place isn’t big enough to have to fake it for long. She wanders deeper into the room, scanning tables as she passes them for somebody that she knows. It doesn’t take long before she sees her people at a table tucked towards the corner, seeing Robert straight on before she even notices Mark’s profile, or, better yet, the back of Jeremy’s head.

Robert spots her at roughly the same time, breaking out into a smile. “Hey, Red!” He waves her down, Mark and Jeremy both spinning around to tune in.

“Hiya,” she says, stopping once she’s poised right behind Jeremy’s chair. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” The comment is specifically for Robert, who she is still having a little trouble believing that she’s seeing. It’s not as though she’s consistently been shot down by Robert in her attempts to go drinking – ever since drinking became legal for her, she’s much tamer about it – but any situation where alcohol was ever involved, he was typically far removed.

“And let you guys have all the fun?” Robert scoffs. “Please.”

She skims across the table top and spots the half-full glass of water in front of him, another placed in front of Mark. She can’t outright decipher if Mark’s sober as well and she’s just an inconsiderate moron that didn’t do a thorough enough Google-dive on her costars prior, or if it’s simply a very sweet gesture of solidarity on his behalf.

There’s no question on Jeremy’s front. He didn’t get any sort of water-only memo, judging by the bottle in front of him.

He is sprawled out in his chair, lounging comfortably against the back and his arm draped over the empty chair beside him. He cranes his head back over the edge of the chair to smile up at her. “Hey, look who it is.”

“Surprise.”

He pulls the empty chair next to him back a little bit, giving her room to slide in and sit down. “Are you guys hiding from Chris Squared?”

Robert’s eyes narrow. “Are you?”

“I asked first.”

“You said it, not us.”

She’s taking that as a yes. “Don’t feel like trying to keep up with all of the bro talk,” she clarifies for herself.

“What do you think we’re doing over here? Discussing the national debt?”

“You know what I mean.” The dubious look on Jeremy’s face is conjured up just to poke at her buttons, and she rolls her eyes. “How’d you and Evans even find this place, anyways?”

He grins. “I might know a person or two,” he alludes, brandishing his bottle as if that only furthers the mystery of his response.

Mark sits up, leaning across the table. “He means Google.”

Scarlett gives a half-nod in concession. “Ah.” Jeremy’s bubble has been popped, the corners of his lips pulling down into a frown.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Robert says. “I think Renner picks ‘em out pretty good.”

Scarlett has no idea how to suppress the bewildered look that flashes over her. “What makes you say that?”

“Aw, c’mon.” Robert gestures widely with both hands at the room around them. “This place isn’t calling your name?”

Her eyes squint as she studies Robert closely over the rim of her bottle – there is something in the way he says it that’s tugging at her, hinting that he knows something the rest of them don’t, but she’s got next to no idea what that could possibly be. Perks of being sober, she supposes.

Jeremy quickly derails her train of thought that’s dedicated to figuring out what it could be by leaning closer, nudging her thigh with his half-balled up first to inform her that her next drink is on him. Based off the gleam in his eyes, she’s got a strong suspicion that it won’t be another beer.

Not that there will be any complaint out of her: if all the boys are going to feel obliged in being chivalrous enough to pay for her drinks, she’ll come out every fucking Friday night.

She forgets all about Robert’s ‘ha-ha I know something you don’t’ card up the sleeve until she and Jeremy have cleared through two rounds of tequila shots and are halfway through old-fashioneds. Robert returns from what he claims was the bathroom with a smile that is overly saturated in self-satisfaction, and immediately her suspicion heightens. She might be well on her way to buzzed, but she’s not drunk yet and she’s certainly not stupid.

“What did you do?” she springs on him as soon as his ass hits the chair, eyebrows furrowed.

Robert feigns his confusion well. “What are you talking about?”

She points an accusatory finger at him, sitting up a little higher. “You.”

Robert points back at himself. “Me?”

Before she can grill him properly, the volume of the music playing lowers to accommodate a voice booming over the speaker. “Alright, folks! It’s karaoke night here at the Tavern, so if you’re feeling up to the challenge, we’ve got a sign-up sheet out and ready. Looks like we’re gonna kick things off with…uh, Chris Evans! Chris Evans,” the voice draws out, and Scarlett immediately spins in her seat to try and pinpoint Evans. “So, Chris, if you’re in the house, buddy, come on up front.”

Scarlett nearly breaks her neck whipping back around to face Robert, who is acting way too nonchalant to not know what’s going on. He is a worse actor than he assumes himself to be. “Karaoke?” she splutters in disbelief, cutting her eyes over to Jeremy. “You brought us to a karaoke bar?”

Jeremy’s hands fly up in mock arrest. “I didn’t know that!”

“Bet the musical theater kid did,” she mutters.

“Dude!” Speak of the devil and he shall appear: Evans comes thundering over in a totally conspicuous manner despite him hissing through his clenched teeth. “What the fuck?”

“They’re looking for you, Chris,” Robert informs him matter-of-factly, counting on the measure of playing dumb to spare his ass.

Evans’s eyes bug out of his head as he hunches down over the table. “What have you done to me, Downey? I can’t fuckin’ sing!”

Scarlett nearly chokes on her old fashioned, coughing violently. “Um, that is a _lie_,” she calls bullshit as she clears her throat. Evans locks in on her, and if a look could kill, she would have died from the drink going down the wrong way already. “Evans is a literal Von Trapp. He cried when I got my Tony because I got one before he did.”

Jeremy finds this hysterical, reaching back and slapping Evans on the ass as he laughs. “Those hills alive with the sound of music?”

Evans furiously swats Jeremy’s hand away, still consumed with his crusade against Robert (thank god – the Tony comment is going to cost her later, she just knows it). “What song did you even sign me up for?”

Robert leans over the table. “Whatever song you’re feeling, sunshine. Get up there, tell them, wow us.” He ends his statement with a flourished set of jazz hands.

Evans does a desperate lap around the table, looking for someone that he can drag straight down to hell with him. Scarlett knows that it’s a lost cause – there are no takers sitting there. She sighs, deciding to take one for the team and dropping her glass down on the table.

“Come on,” she says, pushing her chair back. “I’ll walk you up there.” She forcibly takes Evan’s hand in her own.

“Aw, how sweet,” Jeremy crows in between laughs. Scarlett rolls her eyes, ignoring all of them as she stomps off with Evans in tow.

Dragon Horn is not that big of a bar, so it doesn’t take a genius to figure out where they’re doing karaoke: it’s the little stage set up against the wall opposite the bar, where a lone DJ has his computer hooked up to a speaker. One of the empty tables has been dragged towards the stage to house the sign-up sheet and a pen, most people avoiding it like the plague. She looks down on the list, and sure enough, Robert has written in Evans’s name, along with Hemsworth’s and Tom’s.

She is quietly grateful that she too didn’t ditch him at the bar.

“Jesus,” Evans swears under his breath. “I did not come prepared for this.”

“Oh, give me a fuckin’ break,” she cuts him off. “Somewhere inside, a little part of you is jumping for joy at the thought of finally getting the chance to shine. This--” she gestures at him with the flick of her wrist, “—is just a front.”

“You’re insufferable.”

She tunes him out, grabbing the pen off of the table and looping her first name onto the sign-up sheet between Evans and Hemsworth. Evans watches her, both eyebrows taking up new residence in his hairline. “You’re doing this?”

Scarlett shrugs indifferently. “Why not? Not like anybody in here knows who I am.”

“They will once homeboy calls out the name Scarlett Johansson.”

“Half of these people are so drunk they’ll think it’s a joke.”

“And to the other half with camera phones?”

“Hope ET pays ‘em well.” Scarlett pats Evans on the shoulder patronizingly. “Quit being a pussy. Get up there and sing – might be your only chance at finding a booty call.”

His eyes narrow at her. “You think I haven’t gotten a number since I walked in?” 

“Oh no, I know you haven’t. If you want a better date than your right hand, steer clear of the show tunes.” With that, she flashes him a toothy smile and spins on her heel, retreating back to their table. Part of her thinks of warning Hemsworth and Tom as she passes them, but she fully decides against it: the element of surprise can be a beautiful thing.

By the time she returns, Robert has fully dropped the façade, smirking like the cat that swallowed the canary whole. “You’re bad,” Scarlett informs him as she takes her seat.

“No, no,” Robert shakes his head in disagreement. “I’m an opportunist.”

Jeremy’s arm resumes its position around the back of Scarlett’s chair. “Is he gonna do it?”

Scarlett makes a face. “Oh, god yeah. He loves stuff like this, don’t let him fool you.”

“He _likes _stuff like this?” Robert asks, dismayed. “That makes this significantly less great.”

“You caught him off-guard, so you didn’t totally fail. He’s just not going to suck as much as you think he will.”

“And the others?”

Scarlett shrugs. “I know I won’t suck.”

She’s suddenly got three sets of eyes locked onto her. “You’re doing it?” Mark asks on their behalf.

“Hell yeah, why not?” It takes a hell of a lot to embarrass her, and karaoke is not one of the things that will do the trick. If anything, she finds it fun. She’d much rather sing and act like a complete idiot than have someone who truly thinks that they’re going to be the next Mariah Carey hog the mic for a half-hour.

The song playing fades out, and the guy running karaoke returns to the mic. “Alright, everybody, let’s give it up for our first taker at karaoke, Chris Evans!” There is scattered applause across the bar, largely due to the fact next to nobody is paying attention aside from them.

They all sit up straight and crane their necks over the tables that separate them from Evans up on the stage. To no surprise, he already looks comfortable up there.

The opening notes to his song begins and it’s one that their whole table recognizes right off the bat. Jeremy’s laughter only increases, Mark starts cheering and clapping, and Scarlett good-naturedly feigns her annoyance by putting her head down and drawing out a long groan.

A spotlight finds Evans – because _obviously_ – and he puts the stupid show grin on his face as he launches into the song. “Uptown girl,” he croons, which is too much for Jeremy and Robert to handle and results in them erupting into hysterical choked laughter. “She’s been living in her uptown world!”

Evans is a ham, of course, eating up the entire song and getting the whole fucking joint in the palm of his hand if he can help it. At one point in the song, he threads the wired mic out from around the stand so he has some freedom to move, targeting Hemsworth and directing the entire song towards him. It’s a good laugh for sure, it burning in her ribs and jostling around the alcohol. Jeremy has tears in his eyes and keeps burying his head into her shoulder.

Uptown Girl comes to a close, tied off with Evans blowing a kiss at Hemsworth and sticking out both his thumb and pinky finger to make a phone right by his ear. The bar is filled with applause, most of it originating from their table. Robert leaps up out of his seat to give Evans a standing ovation, Jeremy puts his fingers in his mouth to wolf-whistle, and Mark is busy wiping his eyes of any stray tears.

Evans neglects the bar and saunters straight over to them once he turns in the mic, his face smug. “Will that do?”

“That was magnificent,” Robert tells him, clutching onto Evans’s arm. “Scarlett, give him your Tony. You aren’t worthy.”

“Thank you, Chris, for that show-stopper,” the emcee says over the speaker. “I can honestly say we’ve never had anybody open up karaoke quite like that before.” Evans straightens up and points back to the emcee in acknowledgement, the emcee catching it and pointing right back at him in solidarity. A dude thing, Scarlett thinks.

“Next up we’ve got Scarlett…just Scarlett, I guess! Come on up! And if you wanna try to tear the roof of this place better than Chris did, we’ll be taking sign-ups for a while.”

Scarlett slides her chair back and stands up. “You gonna outdo him, Red?” Robert asks.

She scoffs. “Always.”

She grabs her drink off of the table and tosses it back, finishing off the last of it as her semi-shot of courage. Jeremy lifts his arm to pat her awkwardly in between the shoulder blades. “Get up there and kill ‘em,” he encourages.

Robert begins applauding prematurely as she sashays off to the stage.

The DJ, who is conveniently also the emcee, greets her on the edge of the stage. He does one look at her in the dark and she can see the recognition lingering in his eyes, but he skips right over it. “Know what song you’re gonna do?” he asks her, leaning in so she can hear him over the thundering sound of the Journey song they’re playing as an interlude.

She turns into him, her lips right near his ear. “You got New York State of Mind?” she yells.

He draws back, giving her a thumbs up in affirmation. With the motion of his hand, he shows her over to the mic before leaving her to pull up her song choice.

The spotlight is still off, so it gives her time to find her people in the crowd. Evans has taken her seat next to Jeremy, whispering to a bartender with what she’d guess is an order for another round. Robert looks like he is two steps away from making someone film everything, and Jeremy catches her eye, lifting both arms over his head with two thumbs up in support.

Journey ends and the emcee introduces her – fortunately, he omits the last name just like she’d hoped, the opening notes to her song coming through the speakers after everyone’s polite introductory applause echoes through the room.

Her eyes burn as someone turns on the spotlight and white floods her vision. Out in the room somewhere she hears a whistle, it tugging a smile over her lips. “Some folks like to get away, take a holiday from the neighborhood…” she sings, earning a few shouts of approval. New York State of Mind has been her go-to karaoke song for years now, mostly because she, like Evans, holds a high position in the Billy Joel discography fan club.

She is no Evans, no theatrics or funny business in her performance – she just sings the fucking song and has a good time doing it, letting the alcohol surge through her veins and erase any reservation she could have possibly still withheld. Karaoke, even if it isn’t the best, makes a small part of her miss being on a stage and doing a live performance. Music’s not really her thing but she enjoys it, and like just about any other middle child, it provides a straight shot of the attention she craves right into her bloodstream.

She wraps up her song with a laugh – full thanks to Robert and Mark who she has spotted standing up, holding each other’s shoulders and their free hands clutching to either their drink or a fucking lighter. The bar erupts into applause, and she gives a small curtsy before passing off the mic to the emcee that has come to her side.

“Okay, people, next up we’ve got Chris Hemsworth!” As she hops off the stage, she can hear the groan that comes from Hemsworth somewhere out in the bar. The emcee chuckles. “Is it Chris Night or somethin’? If your name’s Chris or you’re looking to take the stage, come sign up for karaoke!”

Scarlett skips back to their table, met with another round of applause from her audience. “Thank ‘ya, thank ‘ya,” she teases, dropping her voice an octave.

“You couldn’t come up with something besides a Billy Joel song?” Evans huffs playfully. “Trying to steal my thunder?”

“No, but I am stealing my seat back.” She shoves at his shoulder and he scoots over on the seat, leaving her half. “My ass is not gonna fit there!”

Jeremy, who can’t take a single thing seriously in his life it seems, starts snickering. Evans doesn’t budge any more, so Scarlett takes what she has and perches down on the edge of the seat that he’s left her.

Once she’s sitting down long ways on the chair and facing Jeremy head on, she purposefully slides back so her entire body has Evans's arm pinned to his side. If he’s going to give her no room, then she will kindly return the favor.

“Your Tony is safe and secure, it seems,” Robert says. “Although I still think Evans had more of a performance going for him.”

“Whatever,” she says, lightheartedly flipping out her hair. She leans forward a little, poking Jeremy in the arm with a single finger. “What’d you think?”

There are two drinks sitting in front of him, and he slides the untouched one towards her. “You took my song,” he says.

Her face twists up in confusion as she wraps her hand around the glass. “Your song?” 

“Yeah. New York State of Mind’s my go-to karaoke song.”

Scarlett’s lips curl back in a wicked grin. “Well, if it’s yours, go claim it.” She nods in the direction of the stage, where Hemsworth has begrudgingly reported and is consulting with the emcee about his song. “Outdo me.”

Jeremy shakes his head, pulling his glass up to his mouth. “Nah,” he declines. “I’m not much of a singer.” 

She has the strongest desire to call bullshit yet again, except she doesn't really know if Jeremy can sing or not. “Aw, c’mon,” she pouts, sticking her lower lip out. “We’re all doing it.”

He takes one look at her and laughs. “You know you’re just supposed to say no to peer pressure and all of that shit?”

“If everyone said no to peer pressure one-hundred percent of the time, then it wouldn’t exist. _And_ I wouldn't even be sitting here. I'd still be at home in my socks.”

He gives her that one, a small smile his only concession. “It’s not gonna work, sweetheart. Seriously. I’m probably sparing everyone’s ears by sitting this one out.”

“Our ears are gonna be compromised after this one.”

“Then it’s best we leave well enough alone then, huh?”

It’s not an answer she likes – she mentally vows that she’s going to make him get up and do karaoke the next time they all come out, because it’s not a question anymore, there _will _be a next time – but she lets it pass and instead dials into her new drink and Hemsworth up on stage singing one of his brother’s girlfriend’s songs.

The summer’s still young.


	7. symptoms of the culture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i told myself i wasn't going to sleep until i made SIGNIFICANT progress, so here we are, me and my fucked up sleep schedule and a new chapter for you! i'm a little rusty, trying to get back into the swing of finding everyone's voices (some of my favorite creators have said it best, and that is that quarantine, despite giving us all ample free time to be creative, has squashed so much of the desire to create content) so any love you have or songs that really make you wanna hit the pedal over rennerson that you can share with me, i will GLADLY take. sending you all so much love and light during these utterly bananas times. who would've ever thought we'd actually miss 2019?
> 
> chapter title comes from foster the people's 'sit next to me.' feedback keeps the lights on, so if you've got a second, leave a little love and tell me what one year-anniversary moment you're missing most right about now during these horrendously dark times. find me on twitter @emswifts, where i am in severe mourning over BW and the throwbacks to the endgame storm that brought me back here (and shaved several years off of my life in the process). happy reading xx

“I’m tired,” Evans whines as he collapses next to Scarlett on the ground. She’s cradling a water bottle between her kneecaps, lips pursed against the lid as she stares straight ahead of her at nothing in particular – his complaint just barely registers with her, eyebrows crinkling together as she gives him a perplexed look. Evans sprawls out, a limb out in each direction as he heaves the air into his lungs greedily. “This sucks.”

“This is week two. Week one, if you’re not counting last week’s fucking-around-fest,” she reminds him, returning back to her agenda of staring at nothing.

“Yeah, and I am severely missing said fucking-around-fest.”

“You’ve only been here an hour.”

“And it’s been the longest hour _of my life.”_

Scarlett’s lips press into a thin smile, eyes squinting shut as she pats Evans on the shoulder patronizingly. “This is about to be a _long_ summer for you, huh?”

He groans, rocking back until he’s flat on the ground. Scarlett rolls her eyes in response.

_Actors._

She’s been at the gym for hours now, the sky still black and sprinkled with stars when she pulled into the parking lot. Last week was about finding the footing in order to hit the ground running this week, and that’s exactly what they’ve done – some of it in the literal sense, too. She’s run countless laps around the lot, her skin baking in the heat and tops of her shoulders getting burned after only a few hours. (The sunburn wouldn’t have bad if people like Chris Hemsworth didn’t exist, coming up behind her and slapping her on the shoulders in congratulations on upping her weight on the bench press as his way of crawling under her skin and pulling out the competition. She’d thought about hitting him with her car for that one in retaliation, before deciding she liked her security deposit more than getting even.) There’s not much to get lost in translation: if they’re not sleeping or in front of a camera, they’re up to their eyeballs at the gym doing stunt training.

Nothing in conditioning or training back in LA adequately prepared her for this. Scarlett’s only slightly better at concealing it than Evans. Inside, she is dying.

“What are they blocking with you?” she asks Evans.

“Something with the shield.”

“Wow,” she feigns her surprise, overly saccharine tone dripping from her voice. “So informative. Thanks for enlightening me, buddy.”

Evans head just barely lifts off of the ground to glare at her. “Why are you getting to just sit here? I had to come up with a good enough argument for a five minute break that it coulda got me into law school.”

“I’ve been here since four. They’re taking mercy on me.”

“They don’t know what that word even means.”

“I am not a priority.” She tips her head off to the side. “Right now, he is.”

The _he_ in question is Jeremy. He’s flanked by both of their trainers, all of them studying him holding a bow like he’s a breakthrough discovery in science. “Damn,” Evans whistles. “He looks hot with that bow.”

“Want me to go get his number for ‘ya?”

Evans pulls himself off of the ground just enough to elbow her in the thigh. “Ah, c’mon. You gonna tell me that’s not a nice view to have?”

“You gonna tell me that you didn’t love groping my ass back on Nanny Diaries?”

“Yeah, you got me there. I really do enjoy making out with my sister every now and again.”

Scarlett pretends to gag (although she isn’t too far off from queasy). “Incestuous.”

“That’s us.”

Her eyes shift back over to Jeremy. She didn’t know that there was a bigger perfectionist than herself out there, but there he was, a solid competitor for the title. It didn’t matter if he had to put in an extra two hours on just form, he was relentless in making sure everything he did was correct. Case in point: even though they were still in the deciding stages on whether they’d CGI in any of his arrows, he was determined to make sure his shooting looked as though he’d been doing it for years.

It’s easy to get lost in watching, too, the rhythm in which he repeatedly draws the bow and shoots at one of the foam targets oddly soothing. It’s consistent, probably fine tuned down to a steady eight count, and she doesn’t mean to stare, but she does anyways.

And then he catches her.

Their eyes meet and he breaks out into a wild grin. She awkwardly waves back at him, feeling every bit caught despite her intentions being totally innocent. She makes it a point to go back to staring at nothing in a different direction, but she doesn’t lose tabs on what’s happening in the corners of her peripheral vision – Jeremy says something indistinguishable to his audience, peeling off and heading right for her and Evans.

“Like what you see, Johansson?” he teases once he’s a little closer, bow swinging down by his side.

“Just trying to decide if you’re worthy enough for my best friend over here,” she writes off as casually as she can. “He’s kind of in love with you.”

Both of Jeremy’s eyebrows shifts up. “Is that right?”

Scarlett gives him a thin-lipped smile as she gets a decent grip on her water bottle, forcefully jabbing Evans with it and sending him rocketing back upright. “Sheesh, Scarls!” he winces.

“See? Mind’s living on Planet Renner-Love. It’s becoming a predicament.” She drops her voice into a stage whisper. “If you ask me, you could do a lot better.”

Jeremy laughs, the scratchy whine like an instant spread of warmth over her. “I can hear you,” Evans mutters spitefully. “And you’re just mad that you don’t have as beautiful of a budding bromance on your hands like me and J-Man do.”

It’s Scarlett’s turn to wear the surprise on her face. “J-Man?”

“We’re still in the early stages of figuring out pet names.”

“Scratch J-Man off the list,” Jeremy advises, his attention never leaving her. “You bored outta your mind, sweetheart?”

“I’m good right where I am,” she insists, to which he laughs at again.

“Checking me out?”

“You’re a natural with that thing. Forgive me if I admire talent when I see it.”

At the mention of the bow, Jeremy lifts it up and balances it in both of his palms for a momentary inspection. “’S pretty easy to get the hang of,” he deflects modestly, to which Scarlett scoffs at. He glances up from the bow. “You wanna give it a shot? I’ll show you.”

“Yes!” Evans interrupts before Scarlett even has time to think, leaping up to his feet. Both Jeremy and Scarlett stare at him, perplexed. “What? I’m making it my mission to take all the toys at least once.”

Scarlett’s face draws up in disgust – because she and Evans have been operating on the same wavelength for much longer than she will ever be glad to admit, he senses where she’s gone before even setting eyes on her, groaning. “You still have the filthiest mind, deep clean that shit already.”

“You said it, not me.”

“She always been like that?” Jeremy asks Evans, and Evans nods fervidly.

Clearly, he has failed to remember the dozens of occasions when she was barely eighteen and couldn’t reference the capitol of the great nation of Thailand without him snickering into his shirt sleeve. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she glowers at Evans.

Jeremy looks back down at her rather expectantly. “You comin’?”

“Sure.” She sits her water bottle on the ground, pulling herself upright and dusting her hands off on her leggings.

It’s these little moments that take the edge of everything being very much a job off, even if it is only for a fleeting moment. These are their class changes in the hallway when they have the chance to let down their hair for a moment, socialize and forget about all the things they’re supposed to be burning into their memories in order to reach success of some kind. She’s a fleeting kind of person more often than not, which puts this right up her alley. She lives for the things that come and go, have an expiration date stamped on the back and will never be the same twice if they're to ever come back into orbit.

Jeremy directs them back over to his corner of the gym, a little closer to one of the targets he’d been firing at that is littered with holes. Evans is attached to his hip, making grabby hands for the bow as Jeremy tries to explain the few things that are necessary to be mindful of while shooting, while Scarlett stands a few paces off to the side in observation. She’s content to learn from a distance, not wanting to swoop in and steal any of Evans’s thunder.

“You just nock the arrow here,” Jeremy explains, trying to guide a rubber-tipped arrow – Scarlett’s not a better but she’d be willing to put a hefty price down that they’ll never be trusted with anything beyond this – against the bow without stringing up Evans’s hand in the process. “Then you can draw it back, and…” He releases the arrow with very little luster, it sailing through the air before bouncing off the edge of the target. “Voila.”

“Okay, professor, I got it,” Evans insists. “Lemme have a go.”

Jeremy hands off the bow, wisely taking a large step back once Evans is wielding the weapon. He walks back until his shoulder is brushing against Scarlett’s, her stealing a small glance away from the circus to look at him. “You don’t trust him?” she puts together quickly.

“Even less than I trust myself.”

She’s seen Evans work the shield before; while it wasn’t all grace and elegance, he at least knew his way around it. The bow is not his shield by any means. The shield’s a giant Frisbee, and the bow is a precision weapon – just because he has decent aim with one doesn’t mean it carries over to the other. He fumbles with getting the arrow nocked the way Jeremy had it, finally deciding that whatever he has is good enough before drawing it back. That part he manages with ease, like it’s no trouble at all, and then he releases. The arrow doesn’t go very far, nose diving onto the ground a couple of feet in front of him.

“Goddammit,” he pouts, letting the hand holding the bow drop back down to his side as he turns slightly to face them. “This is not as easy as you make it look, y’know.”

Jeremy lifts both hands and shrugs innocently. “Red said it best. It’s talent: you’ve either got it, or you don’t.” Lines settle deep into Evans’s face in a frown.

He very clearly wants to give it another shot, a chance that’s ripped away from him when his trainer appears and notifies him that his five minutes have been exhausted and it’s back to work. Evans hands the bow back to Jeremy and departs with a wave, Scarlett not missing the way that Evans sighs underneath his breath at the retreat.

“You wanna give it a go?” Jeremy asks her, extending the bow in offering.

“Absolutely.” She takes the bow from him, the smile rapidly sprawling across her face. “Anything I can be better than Chris at, I’m doing.” He laughs, a hearty sound as he splits off to fetch the same arrow Evans had half-heartedly fired into the ground.

“Okay,” he says, passing her the arrow. “Give it a go, Red.”

She’s not Evans, hasty to prove a point or jump the gun. Like most things, she wants to do it right, so she takes the extra moment or two to get a feel for the weight of the bow in her hands, studying the setup and using all of Evans’s mistakes as her guide. Carefully she gets the arrow nocked, giving it a quick assessment – it looks right enough, anyways, right enough that she can pull the arrow back and not accidentally elbow herself in the nose.

“This look right?” she asks, briefly shooting a look over her shoulder where Jeremy’s standing back and observing.

“Yeah.” He pauses, taking an apprehensive step forward. “Can I…?”

She gives a short nod, beginning to feel the burn in her left arm as he steps up behind her. He’s the equivalent of a furnace, leaching off body heat onto her in an already hot gym that the dozens of air conditioning units haven’t made a dent in. Under his fingers she’s malleable, one of his hands brushing over her elbow to lift it up slightly. “You wanna aim it…here…” He muses softly, his breath warm on the back of her neck. Another step closer and she can feel his chest brushing against her shoulder blades with every slight movement.

“Okay,” he finally says, his hands leaving her and the heat radiating into her back diminishing when he takes a step back. “Release it.”

Her fingers let the drawstring loose and the arrow goes flying, making it much farther than Evans’s had. It bounces off of the foam target, landing unceremoniously on the floor.

“Well,” she begins, lowering the bow. “Not great, but at least I made it farther than Chris did.”

Jeremy smiles as she passes his bow back off to him. “For your first shot, it was great.”

“Really?” He’s feeding into the part of her that craves any kind of validation it can sink into like he knows exactly where to siphon the compliments into. Her lips perk up in the corners, hopeful smile beginning to emerge.

“Really,” he assures her. “You gonna teach me something in return?”

“Sure." She has to think about it for a second. "There’s that move where I take somebody down with my thighs?”

The mischievous way his face lights up is brighter than most of the years she’s seen Rockefeller at Christmastime. “Oh, I am _so_ taking you up on that one.”

* * *

Scarlett knows herself. She likes to think that she knows herself better than anyone else does – Vanessa and Hunter both would disagree, but she’s learned to dismiss their ridiculous claims by now. Where most women she knew would have looked at something like _Avengers _through a lens of apprehension or opportunity with its almost entirely male roster, she looked at it as a relief. She’s never been stellar with other women as company. She can count on her fingers the number of female friends that she’s had over the years that weren’t friends by circumstance or necessity, or that she genuinely got along with beyond the confines of a professional relationship. She just doesn’t _do_ girlfriends the way that other girls seem to.

Vanessa’s spent years telling her it’s an amalgamation of personality traits she wears boldly like war paint, personality traits that don’t exactly appeal to other members of the female species. Some girls are simply intimidated by her, which she can’t help or remedy (and, really, she finds fucking ridiculous). Some girls don’t like the way that she’s much more attuned to male company and misread the book she’s in entirely, which she’s not going to waste her breath in trying to correct since it’s typically a losing battle. Some girls are just turned off to her without her even needing to open her mouth, which is fine by her. She can be professional, but she doesn’t do playing nice very well. There is no tempering her feelings or pouring her thoughts through a sifter to separate sand from the shards of her opinions.

Being confined to the company of a majority of men doesn’t daunt her. She’s looked forward to it, because she gets along so much better with them. There’s less of the headache that tends to occur whenever she’s in a group of girls, with all the double entendre comments and cutting glances and eggshells in all shape and size lingering under her feet. The guys might have a tendency for being a little rowdier and grittier, but she’ll take it, because it runs at a frequency closer to the one she operates on.

While she has no complaints about the cards she’s been dealt in relation to _Avengers_, she seems to have severely underestimated just how much she’d search for at least one singular female companion, if anything in solidarity of the sausage fest that is their entire cast makeup.

That’s where Cobie comes in, white horse and all.

Cobie is the breath of fresh air that Scarlett doesn’t even realize she’s been needing until she is in her presence and then is made aware of the fact she’s been holding her breath the entire time. It might end up being one of those friendships solely out of circumstance, but for now, it’s the dash of estrogen she needs to keep from putting Hemsworth’s head through some drywall (it has truly disheartened her to learn that he has the potential to be even more vexing than Evans, she’d had her hopes set high that their only fatal flaw was the desire to out-lift one another in the gym).

“You coming to dinner with us tonight?” Scarlett asks her as they walk through the lot side by side. With the trailers officially being set up in the lot, it hadn’t taken her long to memorize where she was in relation to everyone else: two to the right of Cobie, Jeremy diagonally behind her, Evans four to her right. Cobie had caught up with her on the way out, spending most of her day in peace and running through the script with Joss when he wasn’t filming.

“Dinner?” Cobie repeats, eyebrows furrowing.

It’s little questions like this that remind Scarlett that Cobie, along with several other of their castmates, are floating out in the orbit of the very centered universe of herself and the other five boys that are as good as running this show and are often exempt from plans like this. “Yeah,” she says. “Downey’s looking to treat us. Figure any meal he’s paying for will be worth it.”

That garners a smile from Cobie. “You’re probably not wrong. You got a call time tomorrow?”

Scarlett shakes her head. “Just more fuckin’ wushu with Eric. You?”

“Just with Shae.” Cobie’s got a two-year-old, which is a slight wrench that will make her company very hard to come by. From what she understands, Cobie only stays in town on the nights when she has a call time the next day, flying back as much as she can manage to spend time with her daughter while she’s still growing like a weed.

Scarlett’s seen a picture or two of Shaelyn, and she gets it enough to understand. The kid is pretty fucking adorable.

“I’m sure it won’t be a five-hour dinner, if that’s what you’re worried about. And I don’t think we’re carpooling. Something about motivating us to stay sober?”

“I heard that was a must,” Cobie jokes. “Didn’t Hemsworth nearly break a speaker last weekend when you guys were let off your leashes?”

“In his defense, it looked a lot sturdier than it actually was.”

“And as for his body weight?”

Scarlett shrugs. “Alcohol’s a crazy, crazy thing.”

Cobie laughs. “I’m sorry I missed that.”

“You don’t have to miss this one,” Scarlett prompts hopefully.

She exhales shallowly, every second that she takes to consider it another second that Scarlett has to elevate in her optimism. ”I’ll drive,” she tosses out as a last resort.

It’s enough to get Cobie to bow and break under the peer pressure. “Would you follow me back to my house and let me drop my car off first?”

Scarlett’s smile is megawatt. “Absolutely.”

The drive back to their neighborhood is close to forty-five minutes, the restaurant Robert’s found for them roughly another half hour out. Cobie sits in the passenger seat and relays directions to Scarlett from the group text as needed. Occasionally when Scarlett glances over, just to double check the words Cobie’s reading are correct, the light of the phone will catch on Cobie’s engagement ring and she’ll take notice of it. It brings up a sour, prickly feeling in the depths of her stomach, but she can’t spend the rest of her life so submerged in bitterness that she wants to wrap her car around a telephone pole at any allusion of marriage the world sends her way.

“How’s Taran?” she decides to ask, attempting to keep her voice level.

Cobie seems a little surprised that she’s asked such a question, it fading from her expression as quickly as it appeared. “He’s good. Working, making sure Shae doesn’t accidentally burn down the apartment. Holding down the fort.”

“Are you guys married or are you…” Scarlett trails off rather dumbly, ripping her sights off of the road long enough to glance over at her.

“Not yet. Still planning stuff.”

“Haven’t you guys been engaged for a while?”

“A little over two years,” Cobie finishes for her. “No rush for us; we’ve already got Shae, so there’s no point in racing headlong down the altar. When you know, you know. You know?”

_No_, she wants to argue. _I don’t know._ She thought she might have, once upon a time, but like all fairytales, it crumpled apart soon after the fade to black at the sunset and they realized that they didn’t know the first thing about each other. “Yeah, I suppose,” Scarlett says detachedly.

There’s an uncomfortable beat of silence, before Cobie clues in. “Oh, shit, I forgot,” she starts, rushing to rectify, but Scarlett shakes her head.

“No worries.” 

“Is—you know, everything alright? With all of that?”

Scarlett shrugs half-heartedly, keeping her attention strictly on the road. “It’s okay. I’m letting my attorney duke it out if it comes to a battle. We both want out of it as fast as we can.” She doesn’t say that they want out as soon as humanly possible for entirely different reasons: she wants to bury it and pretend it never happened, Ryan wants to cut himself off at the knees for Blake and make things as official as official gets with her.

The thought nauseates her and threatens to kill any hope of an appetite.

Cobie maneuvers her way strategically around the land mines, treading lightly just in case. “Do you two talk?”

“Nope,” she answers succinctly. “I do that through my attorney, too.”

She tries her best to ignore the sad eyes that she knows are running little divots into the side of her head where Cobie’s staring. Eventually, Cobie gives it up too, settling back into her seat and staring out the windshield at the dusky sunset that’s fading from orange to indigo to black in a bewitching ombre. “I’m sure you’re tired of hearing it,” she finally says. “But I’m sorry.”

“That I’m getting divorced?”

“That it wound up being a pile of shit.”

It cracks the beginning of a smile over the hard exterior she’s learned to put up whenever Ryan becomes the topic of conversation. “Thanks,” she mutters quietly, and she feels the force of Cobie’s reassuring smile. 

"I'm sure this has helped," Cobie adds. "Leaving it in a different zip code."

She weighs Cobie’s words for a minute. She hasn’t entertained a single thought pertaining to her soon-to-be-ex-husband or anything that isn’t currently residing in the 87106. The world only exists within their little bubble, and despite not being wise enough to acknowledge it, it has helped. There haven’t been any nights where she’s felt like getting blackout drunk or days where she’s barely had the energy to pull herself out of bed. She left that version of herself locked in a closet back at home. “Yeah, a bit,” she admits, feeling some of the tension in her shoulders dissipating and relaxing.

Her latest failed venture of love fortunately dies off as Cobie calls out another turn at an upcoming red light.

They get to the restaurant, and it doesn’t require much searching to find the rest of their people. Noisily congregated at two tables pushed together communal style, they’re in the heart of the dining area. “Look who finally decided to show up!” Robert announces, his head popping up from the very end of the table.

“Are you never not late?” Jeremy asks, the open seat next to his own putting him closest to them.

“It’s an art,” Scarlett informs him.

A quick scan across the table lets her know that the empty seat next to Jeremy and the one directly across from it beside Hemsworth are theirs. Her eyes catch Jeremy’s and he gives a little nod at the empty chair beside his own as suggestion.

She slides into it, Cobie taking the seat opposite her – she doesn’t want to wish ill on her, but better Cobie than her having to pick peanut shells out of her hair later on tonight. 

“I took her back to the neighborhood first,” she tells him by way of explanation, slinging her bag on the back of her chair. When she spins back around, Jeremy has his menu tipped out in her direction for the taking.

“If that’s your excuse, Red, then sure.”

Her eyes cut up at him as she takes the menu from him, watching as the grin unfurls over his lips.

She orders a glass of water and the first beer the waiter rattles off as having on draught along with her meal. “What happened to your diet?” Jeremy teases her with a laugh, leaning in so their conversation doesn’t fully disturb Cobie trying to order.

She’s appalled at the irony of it, her eyes widening. “Me? What happened to yours, mister ‘_double cheeseburger with a side of onion rings?_’”

“Our diets vary.”

“No they don’t,” she scoffs. “They’re the same stupid protein and vegetable crap.”

“Protein,” Jeremy says, gesturing towards a picture of a cheeseburger printed on one of the foldable menus advertising specials that’s propped up on the table in front of them. His hand then moves down towards the picture of onion rings in the bottom corner. “And vegetable. See? Following the diet to a T.”

“You’re horrible.”

“Not as bad as your rabbit food.” His face twists up in disgust at the mention, the thought of a salad utterly horrendous.

“We’ll see who gets the last laugh when we’re all racing around the lot tomorrow in the ninety-degree heat.” She leans over him, fingers just barely wrapping around his own glass of beer and sliding it across the table until it’s close enough for her to grab and take a sip. “My money says me.”

“Whatcha gonna buy me? A beer to replace the one you’re sucking down?” She rolls her eyes, putting the glass back down on the table.

“Talented _and_ funny,” she emphasizes with a pat on the shoulder. “You’re gonna make some girl out there a lucky woman one of these days.”

He doesn't peg her as the type to get embarrassed very easily, but the way that he clams up and resorts his attention to winding a straw wrapper around his fingers is like a douse of kerosene and a well-lit match. She brightens visibly at the tiny victory that she's going to wear proudly on her chest.

It sneaks up on her quietly, while she, Hemsworth, Jeremy and Cobie are all entangled in an impassioned conversation about whether or not Hemsworth should bleach his eyebrows again, Jeremy nudging his basket of onion rings closer and closer in her direction so she can pick at them as she pleases and take what she wants for herself despite the insistence her salad is more than enough. _Yeah,_ the tiny voice in the back of her head whispers, just loud enough so that she can decipher words in the little rush of wind. _This helps._


	8. it's nice to have a friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....................well. hello friends.
> 
> it's been a crazy time, has it not? time during the pandemic really has passed at such a strange, inexplicable way and that's really the only excuse i have as to why this hasn't seen an update in so long, despite that NOT being my intention. but, life happens. i'm still here, i am planning to go nowhere (especially after miss taylor dropped ANOTHER album that recharged all of my rennerson feels, crazy how almost a year later i am still in the same boat of taylor swift threatening me to write or ELSE) and i hope you all are doing well! thank you so much for being willing to stick with me with me, amidst my writing ruts or full blown mental breaks that sometimes make it to where it takes time for me to do what it is that i love most. your patience means the world, and you know that i always do my best to make any wait i subject you to worth it. there is so much to come. maybe my shit will get itself in check and i'll be able to deliver on an actually somewhat normal schedule. it's what we rennersons truly deserve.
> 
> chapter title is from taylor swift's 'it's nice to have a friend' (wow, what a surprise). feedback means the world and keeps all the flickering lights on from where jeremy and scarlett forget to pay electricity, lmaooooo. if you would like to yell about tracks on folklore and how they relate to rennerson and olsevans, i'm on twitter @emswifts. happy reading xx

**MESSAGES**  
Sean Penn

Monday, May 16

Hi, gorgeous. Hope you’re well.

Wednesday, May 18

Good, just insanely busy. The going never  
stops!

Miss you.

I don’t have to miss you much with  
your remember-me-by pictures

Anything to be of service

Not as great as the real deal, but  
it does the trick

You coming back to LA any time  
soon?

Thursday, May 19

Not that I know of! We’re about to be knee  
deep in a filming spell for the next few weeks

I think I might get a week or two sometime  
in June?

If you want, I can try to arrange something  
sooner. NM isn’t that far

I made it to DC in time to see you, I can  
take a weekend to visit you in LA where  
we actually get alone time. No fears of  
making out in front of elected officials

You’re the one who likes the rush of  
getting caught. I’m just happy to  
be of service

Don’t rearrange your schedule for  
me

Whenever I see you, I’ll see you

Enjoy yourself

* * *

Making a movie is a learning experience. It’s the reason Scarlett enjoys making them; she doesn’t like taking projects where she doesn’t feel as though she’ll be challenged and walk away with more knowledge than she showed up with. The growing process is never complete as an actor. Every day is a new day, no two projects the same, and it fulfills a part of her that would wither up and die if stagnancy was present.

Today, she isn’t learning anything about cinematography or her character or the human experience. Instead, she’s getting a lesson on the inner workings of her costars.

There’s one chair in between hers and Jeremy’s in hair and makeup, which may as well service a brick wall. Jeremy is on an entirely different planet, his eyes staring ahead at the mirror with no real expression on his face. He could be meditating, he could be challenging himself to a staring contest, he could be dead. There’s not much indication of life going on from his end.

Scarlett leans forward in her chair while the curling iron’s not in her hair, attempting to make eye contact with him. It fails, so she instead resorts to studying him with a fascination – how someone can sit so unflinchingly while the little birds of hair and makeup artists swirl around him and peck away as they please is remarkable. Sure, she’s had years to get used to people’s hands constantly working on her, but he is so unfazed by it that she briefly wonders if he’s mastered sleeping with his eyes open.

She rocks forward in the chair, using the one leg she’s got crossed underneath her to propel her forward so she can grab an abandoned comb off of the vanity. Carefully she leans back over the armrest in his direction, the pointed end of the comb extended outwards and inching closer to where his arm is resting.

Jeremy’s head snaps in her direction before the tip of the comb brushes against his skin, the sudden motion startling her. She recoils with a tiny yelp, it dissolving into mirthful laughter. “What?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing.

“You good?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Scarlett looks at him incredulously. “Dude, where _were_ you just now?”

Jeremy remains confused as ever. “What are you talking about, Johansson?”

She suppresses her laugh poorly. “This was you.” Wiping all emotion off her face, she slouches down in the chair and lets her line of sight go out of focus.

“What? That’s just my face,” Jeremy defends.

“Jeremy.”

“Scarlett,” he mimics back.

She hovers back over the arm rest, poking the side of his arm with the end of the comb. “Don’t lie,” she sings. “That was you taking a nap with your eyes open.”

“It’s my _resting face_.”

“It’s terrifying.”

Neither of them are filming today, but because they’re milling around set anyways (crafty never disappoints and free food is free food) waiting for stunt training later on in the afternoon, hair and makeup have pulled them to the side so they can figure out looks and get test photographs taken for future reference when they are actually filming and people are having to recreate the same looks over and over again. Scarlett doesn’t mind days like these in the slightest. She likes having people do her hair, paint her however they please. She finds it relaxing – maybe not as much as Jeremy has, but enough that she looks forward to starting her days here instead of in the stunt gym.

Jeremy’s out of the chair, so he gets started on the pictures first. Someone is still messing in Scarlett’s hair as she joins him. “No smiles,” she teases. “Just _rest your face_ or whatever it is you call it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Thank you, peanut gallery.”

“You’re welcome!”

“Are we gonna get to join the wall of over-the-shoulder dramatics?” Jeremy asks his stylist-turned-photographer after another camera flash goes off. He’s referencing the strip of wall closest to the ceiling where all of the test shots that evolved into a mockery of the process have landed. So far, Downey, Evans, Tom, and Hemsworth have all made the wall – Evans’s is Scarlett’s favorite by far, his face barely visible behind the shield.

“Depends, you gonna give us something to work with?”

“With pleasure.”

He reaches out for Scarlett, fingers wrapping around her wrist and pulling her closer to him. “Maybe I wanted it to be a solo endeavor,” she tells him, acquiescing anyways and traipsing into his personal space.

“Hey, _nothing_ screams dramatics like something right out of an epic film. C’mon, O’Hara, get in the shot.”

“You know I wasn’t named after her, right?”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

She laughs as he guides her backwards, her shoulder blades just barely brushing against his chest. He stares off at a random point in the room and Scarlett twists her head slightly so she can glance up at him. It’s hard to suppress the laughter, the flash from the camera in her peripheral vision the only thing that’s keeping her composure glued together at the seams.

Jeremy looks down at her, his eyes crossing, and she loses it. Laughter bursts from her like the pressure in a champagne bottle with the cork removed, having to look away from him and covering her face with her hands. “Fuck!”

“What?” he insists, playing none the wiser. “What’d I do?”

“That’ll be on the wall tomorrow when you get here,” their stylists promise.

“’Bout to be my new favorite picture,” Jeremy tells Scarlett with a wink. She doesn’t have to reiterate it for him to know she feels the exact same way.

They eventually make their break for lunch; Scarlett spots Evans, Hemsworth and Downey all sitting at a folding table in their various degrees of costume, hunched together while they eat.

“Well, well,” she sings, dropping her plate at the empty spot beside Downey. “Boss man giving you guys a break?”

“Long enough to choke down our food,” Evans replies around a mouthful of food, to which Scarlett’s face draws up in minor disgust at. “I think he’s running a timer.”

“That’s…intense.”

“That’s showbiz,” Downey counters with the lackluster flourish of his hands. “What are you two even doing here?”

“Moral support?” Jeremy offers up, at the same time that Scarlett replies, “Nothing good on cable.” Scarlett watches as Jeremy sits down across from her, their eyes catching and him slipping in a quick wink that she would have missed if she wasn’t watching.

“We’re in the stunt gym later,” Jeremy adds. “Knocked out some test shots.”

Evans brandishes his fork to accentuate his response. “Look, you can try, but nothing’s gonna beat mine. Ashleigh told me there was no topping it.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jeremy sings disarmingly. “The camera happens to love that one over there.”

He tips his water bottle in Scarlett’s direction. Evans’s and Downey’s eyes follow – Hemsworth is too engrossed with his sandwich to care – and she has to bite back the ridiculous smile that threatens to sprawl over her lips.

“Maybe Joss’s camera can follow her around for a little bit; if I have to hear the word ‘reset’ one more time _ever_, I think I just might scream.”

Downey pats Evans placatingly on the shoulder. “It is going to be a long summer for you, Boston.”

“Tell me about it.”

“We should go do something tonight,” Downey continues on. “Something that doesn’t involve sitting in some hole in the wall bar watching Hemsworth move his hips like _yeah._”

Scarlett can’t help but to scoff out a laugh into her water bottle, finding it even harder to suppress when she catches Hemsworth’s glare. His performance back at karaoke night had left its impression and would likely never die, but that’s not her fault.

Evans, on the other hand, perks up at the thought. Getting into something is practically his brand – trouble finds him because he opens up the doors and invites it inside. “I don’t know about watching Hemsworth move his hips, but we could go watch him swing the hammer.”

“Is that some kind of obscure innuendo? No offense, Hemi, but I remain a skeptic on the Thor porn.”

“He’s talking about the movie,” Scarlett clarifies. Downey gives her a look that insinuates there’s virtually no difference between what she’s said and his feelings on the porn matter, and she rolls her eyes. “Not the Pornhub remake. Thor’s still in theaters.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess there’s that, too.”

“Is this us making plans to go see a movie after school like we’re back in middle school?” Jeremy asks.

Downey rests his chin down against the heel of his palm, batting his eyelashes. “Only if you promise to hold my hand once the lights go down.”

“I’m in,” Evans agrees. “If not to see Hemsworth’s bleached eyebrows at the size of a car—”

“I am sitting _right here—”_

“—then to do a little homework. Surely to god Joss will let us write this off as character study if I tell him that I still don’t know what the fuck the Tesseract is.”

“Isn’t the Tesseract the name of Sam’s flying Battleship?”

“I thought it didn’t have a name.”

“I thought we were just calling it the Plane, so when those snakes inevitably show up...”

“I still think it’s an enormous missed opportunity on Joss’s part to have absolutely _no_ reference of that whatsoever in this film. A modern day tragedy, if you will.”

“Know what else is a modern day tragedy? Bad bleach jobs.”

“Again: _right here!”_

“Alright, boys,” Scarlett diffuses. “Thor after dark?”

“That’s the perfect name for that porno,” Downey quips, and Scarlett takes that as their unanimous yes before moving on.

Stunt training is as expected: exhausting and warranting a shower afterwards. Eric’s started showing her the beginnings of the blocking for the battle scenes that is somewhere on the horizon and what they have plotted out is not simple in the slightest. She’d wanted to push herself to the edge, though, because pushing herself makes her better and takes her mind off of things that threaten to deplete her entirely, so she grits her teeth and tries not to think about the bruises that will be permanent additions at the end of this.

She takes a slow shower and lets what little bit of hot water they have access to seep into her bones. Pulling her clothes on, she checks through the unread messages Sean’s sent her – days ago, but time has started to lose sense of meaning – and sends him a little something for his trouble. It’s reward for constantly being an afterthought. Maybe not her finest work, but anything that isn’t work these days automatically hits the backburner.

The plan is to meet outside her trailer around six-thirty so they can try and catch the seven-fifteen showing, but she’s not met with much promise at 6:28 and it’s still just her sitting on the steps.

Movement from the corner of her sights catches her attention, and sure enough, it’s Jeremy swaggering her way, his hands tucked in the pockets of his blue jeans. “Looks like we’ve been stood up, Red,” he comments.

“Evans isn’t the best with time management.”

“Neither is Joss. Apparently, they’re still hard at work.”

Her lips twitch into a frown. “Boo. I was looking forward to throwing popcorn at the bleached eyebrows.”

“We can still go,” he tosses out there. “I still don’t know what the fuck the Tesseract is.”

She only has to deliberate for a second, before she decides that she’s sweated enough to earn herself a box of Skittles and a Diet Coke and two hours of whispering to Jeremy about how ridiculous Hemsworth looks. “Me either.” Scarlett pulls herself up from the step, skipping down onto the pavement. “Shall we?”

Jeremy grins, his eyes sparkling in the beginnings of the golden hour sunlight. “We shall.” 

The movie theater they’ve picked is somewhat off the beaten path, with only a few other moviegoers milling around in the parking lot and theater lobby who are too engrossed in their own realities to even care who’s behind them in the concession line. Scarlett treats herself to a large Diet Coke and two boxes of Skittles instead of one, and Jeremy gets a large popcorn just on the precipice that she may want to reach over and snag a handful (which, she will).

They’re sitting in the theater, a few other people scattered around them as the opening previews tick through, when it dawns on Scarlett. “Hey,” she says, poking him in the shoulder. “You’re in this thing, too.”

“Only for like five minutes,” he brushes off, his hand skimming over the top of the popcorn and raking in a small handful.

Scarlett kicks her shoes off, tucking both feet underneath her legs as she makes herself comfortable. “Yeah, but you’re still in it,” she continues, letting her head loll against the seat in his direction. “It’s like your _origin story.”_

He guffaws at the ridiculousness of it, which only makes her grin split and grow wider. “I just remember standing in the fuckin’ freezing fake rain for two days talking to myself and then wrapping. Some origin story.”

“Some of us stand in the rain, others have to strip in a cab with Jon Favreau pretending to drive.” She shrugs. “The origin stories vary.”

“Oh, the versatility of the Marvel universe,” Jeremy hums in agreement.

“There’s something for everyone.”

She rips open the top of her box of Skittles, tearing through the plastic as the lights dim down further. "Just like this movie fuels the bleached eyebrow kink," she whispers, leaning in a little closer to him so she's not outright pissing off the people two rows beneath them.

It turns out that it doesn't matter, because Jeremy nearly chokes on his popcorn and Scarlett has to whack him a few times between the shoulder blades to regulate him back out. They get a strange look or two, but to Scarlett, it's completely worth it. Besides, it's been awhile since she went to a movie just for the hell of it and not because she was contractually obliged to attend, and actually enjoyed herself. 

Lately, she's been having more days where she's been enjoying herself than not, which is a different flavor to have lingering on her tongue. Not that she minds. It's a welcome thing, as welcoming as Jeremy is with letting her dip into his bag of popcorn. 

She never figures out what the Tesseract is, but she and Jeremy sneak a couple dozen illegal pictures on their phones of Hemsworth's eyebrows that she's sure they'll be laughing about for the next two weeks. Or forever. She isn't picky. 

* * *

“Mm, yeah?”

“Where the hell are you?”

“What?”

Scarlett scowls up at the trailer door with Chris Evans’s name on it, the closest thing to him that she has at the moment to take out her annoyances on. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

“My memory’s like an elephant, Scarls.”

“So you’re on your way?” Silence echoes in her ear, all the answer she needs. “Chris—”

“’M sorry, babe,” he groans, exhaling directly into the receiver. “Gimme five, I’ll slap on some pants.”

“No,” she insists frostily. “Don’t worry about it.”

“What are you gonna do, hitchhike? Joss’ll kill me. Just wait there.”

“Wait? It’s almost midnight and we’re the last ones here; at least the freeway’s populated,” she hisses back.

“Well if you die, I’m gonna feel really guilty.”

“Yeah, you should,” Scarlett goads, retreating off of the pop-out stairs of the trailer and hopping the last two feet down to the asphalt. “This is your fault.”

“I’m _sorry_, Scar; I will buy your over-priced coffee every day for two weeks,” he promises blearily. “I’ll find porn with Patrick Swayze doppelgangers just for you.”

“Please don’t.” Her expression scrunches into a grimace, before the realization that she has him in a prime spot relaxes the muscles in her face. “Although, there _is_ this food dehydrator I’ve had my eye on…”

“It’s yours.” There’s scuffling on the other end of the line, likely Chris sitting upright in bed or on the couch or wherever it is that he’s happened to fall asleep. “Are you sure I don’t need to pick you up?”

“Nah. I’ll be okay.”

“I’m forbidding you right now from sleeping in that goddamn trailer.”

Scarlett rolls her eyes. “I’m not gonna sleep in the trailer. Now let me dramatically hang up on you so I can chase Renner down before I’m really stranded and begin plotting your murder with my abundance of free time.”

“You’re a star.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere.”

“But it does get you a food dehydrator.”

“Whatever, traitor. See you later.”

She hangs up and doubles back through the rows of trailers, praying that Jeremy hasn’t left yet. In retrospect, carpooling with Chris over to set and then banking on him to come back to pick her up after stunt training wasn’t the smartest decision she’s ever made, especially considering that Chris’s reliability is only at about seventy-two percent on a good day. But you live and you learn, and she’s hoping she won’t have to learn what horrors the tiny couch in her trailer does to her back when she tries sleeping on it for more than an hour.

Jeremy’s just getting into his truck when she makes it to the back of the lot. “Hey!” she yells out, voice echoing into an otherwise dead night. He freezes, looking back over his shoulder as she jogs through the empty parking spaces. She drops the volume the closer she gets. “You, uh, wouldn’t happen to have room for one more, would ‘ya?”

“Lemme guess,” he quips once she’s close enough to run her hand along the top of his truck bed. “Evans left?”

“Evans fell asleep and forgot to return,” she corrects. “On the bright side, I’m getting a food dehydrator out of it, so I guess I can’t write it off as a total misfortune.”

“And catching a ride with me is?”

“Not what I was gonna say.”

His mouth splits into a smile. “Just pulling your chain, sweetheart.” He tips his head towards the truck. “Hop in.”

“You mind if we make a stop along the way?” he asks once he’s gotten the truck started and they’re easing out of the parking lot.

Scarlett glances over at him quizzically, hugging her backpack close to her chest. “Where’s there to go this late?”

“Anywhere. Everywhere,” he muses mysteriously, and when his sights shift away from the road over to her, she notices the way the lights from the dashboard stereo cause his eyes to sparkle. It spawns another prompt from him, trying to get her to spill on what’s going on inside her head. “What?”

She can’t argue with an impromptu adventure – she wouldn’t, mostly because she’s born and bred with a very blasé approach towards life in the sense everything’s fleeting anyways, so why clutch to plans like they’re solid enough to withstand the wind? “Nothing.”

It’s been a long night of learning fight choreography and weight resistance training, so they make the drive in silence. Some old rock station plays softly in the background as Scarlett watches miles after miles of empty desert pass them, civilization seeming to sneak up on them out of nowhere. She’s content to ride without speaking; Jeremy’s a bit like Chris, in the sense that with him comes a comfortable silence. No awkwardness, no constant need to examine her cuticles or refresh her email inbox despite not having any service.

The steady tick of his blinker breaks up the lulling monotony, Jeremy inching down on the brakes upon arriving at the turn-in for their destination. In the glow of the lights, everything is illuminated, and Scarlett can’t resist in the arch of her eyebrow as she sits up a little straighter. “Really?”

“I told you we were going anywhere.”

They’re one of four cars in the parking lot of McDonald’s as Jeremy coasts into the drive-thru lane. “You want anything?” he asks, rolling down the window.

She straightens up a bit more, tucking one of her legs underneath her. “How likely do you think it is that the ice cream machine’s up and running?”

“Not very.”

“Worth a try.”

She tucks her hair back behind her ears while Jeremy pulls up to the speaker to order. It’s hard to mask the shock when he orders two double cheeseburger meals, but she manages to lose the look of surprise when he glances back at her for an order.

“Ice cream,” she hisses quietly; when he turns away, she decides _fuck it_, leaning over the console to throw out an addendum. “And a cheeseburger, no onions. And a Diet Coke.”

He relays it all, and miraculously, there is no debacle in regards to the functionality of the ice cream machine. She nearly breaks her credit card jabbing it into Jeremy’s arm forcefully, which he ignores. “I coulda paid,” she insists when the girl working the window disappears to get their food.

“No, you couldn’t.”

“Oh, what, is this the whole chivalrous testosterone thing you and all other men have going on?”

He laughs inwardly. “If that’s what you wanna call it. Trust me, I have no doubt in my mind that you could probably buy out this McDonald’s if you wanted it bad enough.”

“There is no universe in which I’d want to own a McDonald’s. Have you seen Supersize Me?” Her face scrunches in disgust, tongue sticking out. “Disgusting.”

They get their food, and Scarlett cannot recall a single instance in her life where she’s been more grateful for soft serve. Jeremy carefully passes it off to her – it is the definition of a cheat in her diet, but it’s been a miserable day with a temperature so brutal that she’s on her second pair of clean underwear for the day from all the sweat, and she can’t bring herself to give a damn about the calories or the dairy.

“Do you want me to go ahead and take you back to your place?” Jeremy asks as he maneuvers out of the drive thru and back onto the road to catch the light.

“Is there another option?” she returns, eyebrows raised as her tongue runs laps around the ice cream.

He drums his fingers up against the steering wheel, the red light washing over them as they wait. “My house is closer. Figured if you wanted to sit somewhere other than an abandoned parking lot…”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure that’s why you wanna go there,” she ribs, dropping her voice an octave into suggestiveness.

He rolls his eyes. “You are ridiculous.”

“Trying to take me home?” She wiggles her eyebrows playfully.

The light flickers to green, and Jeremy doesn’t take his eyes off of the road when he starts grasping at the air trying to snatch her ice cream cone from her in retaliation. She twists herself in the seat so she’s flush against the door, holding the cone above her head to keep it out of reach. “You get ice cream in my truck, Johansson, you’re cleaning it.”

She shoots him a quizzical look as she brings her ice cream back down, resuming her work on narrowing down the width – in this heat, it’s a race against the clock before it melts and she’s got it dripping down her hands. “I’m fine with going back to yours,” she answers him. “’S closer.”

And it is: by the time Jeremy’s pulling into the driveway, she’s about halfway done with her cone. They traipse back into the house, and every noise they make seems amplified considering the surrounding silence. The slam of the truck doors is like a gunshot, the opening of the garage door lasting an eternity.

His house feels a little more like a home, but it’s still very much a skeleton in comparison to the way she’s flung all her shit across her own place to make it feel a little bit more like her own. They take separate routes through the house (Jeremy goes through the kitchen to turn on the lights and she slowly shuffles down the tiny hall straight into the living room) and still wind up at the same destination of the couch. Jeremy is already digging through the contents of his paper bag by the time she sits down a few feet from him, still working on finishing the remains of her ice cream cone. She makes herself comfortable, kicks her shoes off and stretches her legs out down the length of the couch where they run behind Jeremy’s back.

She’s halfway through her own burger (she’s not a fast food kind of girl but a burger’s a burger and meals at midnight strike a different sort of chord than they do at a regular hour) when she notices Jeremy wrapping up the one he’s been eating, carefully folding it back up into the paper. Her eyebrows furrow in curiosity. “What, not hungry after all?”

“Savin’ it for later,” he responds.

The questioning presses on. “Didn’t you get two?”

“You know how long they’ll last?”

“McDonald’s does not keep,” she points out pragmatically.

“It’ll do more than you give it credit for.” He pauses, the slight shift of his gaze onto her giving away the mischievous glint that has returned to his eye. “Kinda like my lime.”

“Ugh,” she groans, slouching down with the arm of the couch servicing as her backrest. “Don’t talk about that damn lime.” She doesn’t add that if she were to go over to his fridge right now and open it to see that lime inhabiting a barren shelf, she’d be staging an intervention.

“It’s emotional support,” he reminds her teasingly.

“And the burger is, too?”

His shoulders fold in an insouciant shrug. “Like I said, just saving it for later.”

“When you need emotional support,” she finishes for him, lips pursing around the straw of her Diet Coke.

“You got it.”

It’s an unintentional stalemate that they find themselves in, Scarlett watching him to see the lightning strike of what she’s missing flicker across his face and Jeremy keeping his eyes trained on her so he knows when he can let his guard down. He is consistent in putting her through her paces – he never backs down or folds first, just leans back against the armrest of the couch. “Like I said, sweetheart,” he drawls, legs lifting off of the ground and resting on the couch parallel to her own. “You’d die if I told you how I used to live.”

“Hit me with it.”

One of his eyebrows vaults higher along his forehead. “You really wanna know?”

“Wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

Her point must be solid enough because he acquiesces, and when he talks, it’s casual, as though they’re exchanging trivial facts like their favorite color and which Billy Joel song they listen to the most. “Money was tight when all of this was still a pipe dream, but you find the best in it. Made it almost like an adventure or a challenge – how far can five bucks go? I’d stretch it over the whole week. I had one place down the street that did fourteen doughnuts for a dollar, and I’d make that work.”

Scarlett purposefully keeps her face impassive as she pulls Diet Coke through the straw. “We lived on welfare when I was growing up,” she finally says. Like him, there’s no shame in the statement – it’s simply the reality of her past. They live in a world of glamorization and airbrushing memories from the past because they’re already out of focus, but there’s a comfort in the grit of the truth. It’s like an anchor to keep from getting lost in the clouds.

His features soften slightly. There’s no pity there, but a shift in his understanding. “So you get it,” he deduces, and Scarlett nods in response. A wistful smile spreads over his lips as he travels back in his recollections. “Some of the most peaceful nights of my life were back when I had no electricity and just sat in the dark with my guitar.”

“In LA?” Scarlett scoffs out a laugh. “No way you enjoyed any peace and quiet there.”

“It’s possible,” he swears. “Just gotta know where to look.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Her lips remain pursed against the edge of her straw as her sights wander over to his coffee table, before back to him expectantly. “Just at least promise me you’ll toss those after a day.”

“Old habits,” he laughs.

“Food poisoning kills too, you know.”

“I’ll take your word.”

They end up sitting on the couch for another hour, poking one another’s legs with the side of their foot as they exchange childhood stories. Scarlett doesn't realize that more than a few minutes at best have escaped them until she's chasing the bottom of her Diet Coke, the ice long melted and watering down the last few drops around the rim of the cup.

“You off tomorrow morning?” she asks out of mere curiosity as she finally surrenders her empty cup to the coffee table. Jeremy leans to the side as well, reaching for the remote and turning his TV on.

“Yeah. It’ll be a good day to not be Robert Downey Jr.,” he quips. The television screen brightens the room as it comes to life, Scarlett immediately recognizing the scene from _Die Hard_. “A Christmas classic.”

She can’t resist rolling her eyes. “Of course you think Die Hard is a Christmas movie.”

“What, you don’t?”

“_I_ was in a Christmas classic,” she declares, wrist going slack as she motions towards herself.

“No one’s seen Home Alone 3, Scar.”

“Whatever.” She pretends to be miffed, but it requires no effort on her behalf to sink a little lower against the arm of the couch and let comfort cover over her like a blanket. The conversation subsides in favor of shifting their attention to a movie that Scarlett herself has seen more than she can count on her fingers (Hunter also subscribes to the ‘_Die Hard_ belongs in the same category as _Rudolph’_ club). It’s that same easy silence that accompanies Jeremy – words aren’t always where she excels, but anyone can simply be. With Jeremy, it just happens to not feel forced.

She’s not a betting kind of woman, but she’d go out on a precarious limb in concluding that the feeling is mutual.

And if she marks it down in her book as a victory, that at the very least someone other than Chris Evans isn’t bending over backwards to impress her and just likes having her company like this? Then she marks it down and turns the page before he can catch the small curve of her satisfied grin.

The weight of her eyelids grows heavier and heavier until she blinks and the entire living room is dark.

It takes a moment to take inventory of her surroundings – she doesn’t fully remember where she is, until she makes out the silhouette of the television in the dark, the screen black and _Die Hard _a lost memory.

Right.

She’s at Jeremy’s.

And she must have fallen asleep, judging by the blanket that’s been draped across her legs.

She stretches her spine along the curve of the arm of the couch as she pulls herself upright, letting the the thought of a glass of water propel her forward. 

The entire house is pitch black, Jeremy nowhere to be found. It's almost like she dreamed him, too - if she didn't know any better, she would've assumed she was at her place, unable to tell one unfamiliar environment from the next. As she trudges sleepily through the darkened house, she gathers the hair at the base of her neck, holding it up so the air has a chance to hit it and cool her off from whatever mugginess Albuquerque and her sudden, deep slumber have seem to invited in. 

In the kitchen, green lights off of the microwave illuminate the time for her. It’s a little after three in the morning, which comes as a bundle of surprise and guilt and exhaustion that demands she get her ass right back to the couch and worry about the implications of sleeping over at Jeremy’s after she’s had at least six hours of sleep.

She reaches for the refrigerator door, carefully prying it open only a sliver so the light doesn’t come flooding out like an angel’s returned. It still blinds her when it washes through the room, taking a few blinks to adjust. Her hand wraps around a bottle of water, drawing it back towards her and inching the door back to a close.

“You up?”

The sound of Jeremy’s voice nearly sends her ricocheting out of her skin, Scarlett losing a grip on the door to the fridge and letting it fall back open. Jeremy stops it with his hand as he slips out of the shadows and into the direct path of the light.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes, and she notices how his voice is mussed with sleep in the same way his hair is. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep on your couch,” she confesses, in the spirit of swapping their sorries.

“Not a big deal.”

“Good thing,” she mutters, twisting the cap off of the water bottle. “Because I definitely got in the way of whatever hot date you might’ve had.”

A laugh comes stumbling out of his throat. “Oh yeah, the couch is probably _real_ torn up about you getting in the way.”

“If it’s gotta blame anyone, it can blame Evans.” She brings the bottle up to her lips, a rush of cold water sliding down her throat and flushing out some of the tiredness that’s lingering in her throat and pitching her voice a half-octave. “Thanks for letting me crash here.”

“Any time,” Jeremy dismisses as though it’s no big deal. “Mi casa es tu casa and all that shit.”

“Once I get that food dehydrator, you can have the first spin,” she offers.

“I’ll pass,” he says, a sleepy smile breaking the edges of his lips. “I’ll think of something else you can pay me back with.”

“As long as you don’t bankrupt me.”

He exhales out another small laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly to help spit out his follow-up response. “Do you want a t-shirt or something to sleep in?”

She glances down at what she’s wearing – she’s been in more uncomfortable ensembles before, but something tells her that going back to sleep in her jeans will require a bit more work the second time. “Sure,” she replies casually.

She thinks he’s going to traipse back up the stairs and fetch one from the drawers or out of the pile of clothes she feels like he definitely has lingering in the corner of his room, but instead, he reaches for the hem of the shirt he’s wearing and pulls it right over his head to hand to her. It’s a lucky thing she doesn’t have a mouthful of water, because she’s still half asleep and so surprised by it, she definitely would have choked on it or spit it all in his face.

“Thanks,” she utters out awkwardly, taking it from him. In the refrigerator light, the bare skin of his chest glows, and she has to mentally remind herself where his eyes are at.

“Sure thing. You need anything else?”

“I think I’ll be okay.”

“Yeah?” She nods in affirmation. “See you in the morning.” The smile lingers on his face, shadows from the angle of the light covering up something that she can’t quite get a read on – it could also be the tiredness, but anything goes. “Maybe I’ll even cook you breakfast.”

It’s her turn to let the corners of her mouth turn upwards. “No take backs on that one.”

His expression is enough promise that he wouldn't retract it even if he wanted to. “’Night, Scar.”

“Goodnight.”

The refrigerator door closes and darkness submerges the room once again.

Scarlett retreats back to the living room, slipping out of her clothes in exchange for Jeremy’s shirt. It brushes over the tops of her thighs, and the smell of his soap floods her senses in a gentle, overwhelming reminder as she drops back onto the couch and fixes the blanket over her legs similarly to the way she'd found it. He is everywhere even though he’s long gone and walking around on the ceiling over her head.


	9. devil's in the details but you've got a friend in me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we back we back we BACK! who is she? updating regularly? i sure as HELL do not know!! this is the one (1) thing keeping me glued together at the seams and brings me a little happiness during the day no matter what kind of ridiculousness i happen to be enduring - if it happens to be the same for you, then consider me honored. reminder that there is a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/28AqtRshcFimMLYieORVbt?si=xyDz4O71RGGxqUDPqOn0dg) and a [pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/heliophilix/fic-i-love-you-aint-that-the-worst-thing-you-ever-/) that i update semi-regularly if you're ever in need of a rennerson fix. lemme tell ya, friends, there's no feeling quite like actually making progress on my outline for once. after not being able to put words to word doc all summer long, it's nice, and i'm glad there's still some of you out there on the journey with me. i hope you're enjoying it as much as i am, especially because there's just SO MUCH MORE to come. literally. we have 8 more years to cover ;) 
> 
> chapter title comes from taylor swift's 'peace.' help keep the lights on in rennerson land, leave a little love or feedback on your way out. as always, i am lamenting about how my life is positively in shambles on twitter @emswifts, so feel free to come tune in and maybe yell about our faves. happy reading xx

In another lifetime, Scarlett thinks, she definitely would have been sifting through the playbook looking for something to try on Tom.

“You’re just too charming for your own damn good, you know that?” she tells him through the glass separating them. He just laughs, lips breaking out into a smile that’s reminiscent of the sun piercing through the clouds, and yeah, if she were anyone else right now, she’d be opening the door to the cage and laying down with the lions.

“Is that so?”

“They’re not supposed to like you. You’re the bad guy.”

“All the best villains have a little humanity about them,” Tom counters as one of the makeup artists dabs a sponge along the line where his wig meets his forehead.

“Humanity, he says,” she scoffs, pretending to be miffed by his argument. The story in her eyes is much different, at which Tom chuckles softly.

They’ve been filming the interrogation scene for a little over two hours now; they’ve not only been running circles around the same few lines of dialogue, but are being held captive on a blisteringly hot set. At one point, the glass cage that Tom’s sitting in started to fog up, and Joss had to call for a break to try and air it out. Currently there is an uncomfortable pool of sweat forming right over the small of her back, because a Lycra catsuit is by no means conducive to any summer environment, let alone Albuquerque’s, but she’s been telling herself that it could be worse. She could be in Tom’s costume.

Which, of course, he makes her feel guilty for even resenting her own sweaty ensemble when he has his assistant go and get her a cup of ice.

She shakes a little more from the Styrofoam cup into her mouth – it’s crushed ice, too, which isn’t helping the whole ‘I’m not going to fish off the company pier’ thing she’s got going on – as Joss flits across the shot to get things reset to his liking. They’re all just pawns on his giant chessboard, and they move around the board within his guidance to play out the game he wants. It’s not unlike them to make that hard for him (what’s a game without players) but considering how much they all want to get this scene wrapped so they can go shed some clothing and sit in front of an industrial fan, they’re cutting back on the monkey business.

And with significantly fewer people named Chris around, it means there’s considerably higher productivity to begin with.

“Is the rumor about nachos in crafty true?” she muses to anyone who will answer. “I could totally fuck up a mountain of nachos right about now.”

Tom looks to the makeup artist for affirmation, getting a nod out of her. “After this, we could go…well, as you put it. Fuck up a mountain of nachos.”

It’s Scarlett turn to let her lips unfurl in a wicked grin. “Are we corrupting you?” she teases. “Never thought I’d hear that word coming from someone so strait-laced.”

“Aren’t I the bad guy, darling?”

“Touché, Hiddles. Touché.”

She takes a brief glance over her shoulder at the crescendo of noise that’s come from the far end of the set – people coming and going constantly, the tide of company nothing out of the ordinary. Joss is standing somewhere in the midst of the huddle, probably with his nose buried in his production binder.

There’s a familiar laugh that she picks out from the hum of chatter, and her feet have a mind of their own in carrying her straight to the source.

He spots her when she’s about five feet out, his face slightly flushed. The closer she gets, the easier it is to see the sweat outlining his hairline and glistening along his arms. “Come to crash the party?” she asks, holding out her cup of ice for him in offering.

“Hey,” he says, taking the cup from her and giving the contents a quick glance before he brings it up to his lips. “Guess so.”

“Hot?”

He shoots her a look. “Wow, excellent deduction, Nancy Drew.” She has still yet to figure out a way to keep her face impervious to him because she can’t keep up her nonchalance, feeling the tiniest crack at the corners of her mouth.

“They been working you over in the stunt gym?”

One of Jeremy’s eyebrows lifts. “Working me over? Sweetheart, what do you think we do in the stunt gym?”

It takes a beat for her to process and pick up on the innuendo she’s unintentionally given him on a silver platter. “Oh, god,” she insists, rolling her eyes and shoving him in the chest playfully. He erupts into laughter once again. “And you wonder how my mind wound up in the gutter.”

“What can I say? You’ve made me untidy,” he drawls, pouring on a thick accent just to get the rise out of her.

“Yeah, tell me about it. You stink.”

She sees it light up in his eyes the exact moment the idea steps into his brain, and it only gives her about a fraction of a second to get ahead. She’s quick to dart out of the way but he’s quicker, hands snaking around her and hauling her in close. “Ew,” she whines, laughing as she tries to squirm away from the embrace. His laugh is rich in her ear, a comfortable warmth unlike the stickiness from her catsuit and his sweat and the overall temperature – this is a multimillion-dollar production, surely to god A/C is lingering somewhere in the budget. “You’re the worst.”

“I believe you’ve mispronounced ‘greatest,’” Jeremy corrects, unwinding his arms from around her and setting her free.

Scarlett shakes out a little more ice onto her tongue now that she’s back to standing still, letting the coldness burst across her teeth and tongue when she bites down. “Are you hanging around to watch us film?”

“Nah.” He grabs the hem of his shirt, fanning it out from his chest to generate a little more airflow. “Gonna go take a shower. It’s hot as fuck.”

A tiny reminder clicks in her brain. “If you want your shirt, it’s over in my bag.” Confusion flickers over his face as he tries to draw a line between why she’d have his shirt and the offering, so she spares him the journey. “From the other night,” she explains, and he’s back with her with the slow nod of his head. “I washed it.”

She’d worn his shirt back to her house after the impromptu sleepover had come to an end, and spent the rest of the day milling around her place in it and a pair of her sweatpants. Rule of thumb states that when your friend lets you borrow the literal shirt off their back and you, for no reason other than laziness and comfort, wear it for much longer than necessary, the least you can do is wash it. It’s been sitting in her bag for two days now, once folded up neatly and now probably smushed under the weight of sides and water bottles and her own changes of clothes.

“I’ll get it from ‘ya later,” he insists, coupled with a blasé wave of dismissal. He gives her the slight tip of his head in Joss’s direction as cue she’s about to be very busy once again. “Knock ‘em dead.”

She saunters away, leaving him with the parting gift of a close-lipped smile and the remaining cup of ice – she figures he’ll have more use of it where he’s going than she will.

Tom’s still stationary on the bench inside his glass cage, the makeup artists and rearrangers of everything from costumes to flyaway hairs descending upon her for a change once she returns within the frame of the shot. “Have you known Renner for a while?” Tom asks casually, an attempt to make conversation.

Scarlett’s shoulders inch up in as much of a shrug as the people fretting over her will allow. “Kinda. We’ve been at parties together and stuff; that whole name game thing that goes on in Hollywood.”

He nods. “Thought you two seemed close."

"Evans and I are probably closer," she responds. 

"Oh?"

She doesn't realize she probably should have been running analysis on the subtleties and undertones in what's not the casual conversation she'd assumed until she starts reading things even on the other side of the glass in the way that he looks at her. Her face falls, head cocking to the side ever so slightly - the rearrangers don't have much give to give her in their work. Tom's hands uncurl from the edges of the bench, only lifting a few inches in their innocence. "Not like that," she adds for good measure.

"There's no judgment," he insists as Scarlett exhales out a tiny laugh.

"Nothing there _to_ judge."

"My apologies."

"Alright, people," Joss interrupts as he strolls back towards the fleet of cameras. "Let's knock this one out of the park, and then we'll break for a little bit. I need fresh air." He settles back down in his chair, before adding, "Also, nachos."

Crew members disappear. Conversations taper off and dissolve into silence. The atmosphere changes entirely as they sink into character, Scarlett pulling Natasha around her shoulders as she stiffens her spine and allows her face to go blank. Acting, she's discovered, is nothing more than the manipulation of emotions. 

"A camera, rolling," someone calls out.

"Quiet on set!"

"Action," Joss says, almost whispers, because Scarlett and Tom are both gone and standing in their place are their characters. 

Tom paces the cell, coming to an abrupt stop as he senses something, an intrusion on his otherwise isolated introspection. "There's not many people who can sneak up on me," he muses.

"But you figured I'd come," Scarlett-as-Natasha supplies the answer, her voice oddly level as Tom carefully spins on his heel.

"After," he agrees, resuming his languid troll. "After whatever tortures Fury could concoct, you would appear as a friend. A balm. And I would cooperate."

The analysis isn't meant to ruffle feathers. Instead, she remains rigid. "I wanna know what you've done to Agent Barton."

Tom-as-Loki is bemused by the demand, shrugging insouciantly. "I'd say I've expanded his mind."

"And once you've won," she interjects, taking a step closer to the glass. "Once you're king of the mountain. What happens to his mind?"

His eyebrows fold in perplexity, head tilting back as he puts the pieces together - not unlike the way he'd tried doing just that a few minutes prior. "Is this love, Agent Romanoff?"

Scarlett feels her skin prickle, the hairs along the back of her neck starting to stake red flags in the ground. Not unlike Natasha, she doesn't like when people read between the lines and come to their own conclusions, even when it is an honest mistake. It's par for the course in her life, others trying to spin the narrative and shove her reality in their molds. It was just an innocent assumption anyone could have made, but something about it unnerves her more than was meant to, and much more than it probably should. He's _good_. "Love is for children," she passes off. "I owe him a debt."

Tom-as-Loki gestures out for her to take the floor. "Tell me."

She grabs the carefully blocked chair to pull up in front of the glass, Natasha sitting down in preparation to cherry-pick the parts of her story she'd like to tell in order to find her means to an end.

Scarlett, on the other hand, has nothing to say. 

* * *

**MESSAGES**  
Sean Penn

Friday, June 3

You busy?

Sunday, June 5

Yeah – sorry I keep missing you :(

No worries. Keep kicking  
ass.

Monday, June 6

Miss this. Miss you.  
[ ATTACHED: https://bit.ly/2ZkYkGL ]

Miss you too.

Got time later for a phone call?

Wednesday, June 8

Hope you’re well, love.

**MESSAGES**  
Kevin Yorn

Monday, June 6

Update 4 you – Laura and I are sitting down  
next week to look over the final drafts. I don’t  
expect you to come back from NM just to sit  
in that mtg and wouldn’t ask you to. We’ve  
been around the block w/ this and at this  
point what we have is set in stone. Can’t  
see them asking for any changes this  
late.

Laura will file the papers once we  
get everything finalized n ready 2 go.  
Again, don’t expect u to fly back to LA  
for this. Stay in NM. Will overnight  
to you. Sign, send them back, and  
you’re good.

If u have any questions, feel free to  
call or txt me. I know you are busy  
so I can work around you. It will  
be over before you know it.

You’re a trooper SJ. Not easy stuff.  
Hope NM is treating you well

* * *

In retrospect, using glorified Nerf guns at work doesn’t equate to having experience with firing real guns, but faking it until you make it is a very real philosophy, and Scarlett’s just hoping it won’t cost her a limb.

Today’s organized activity with the Avengers is straight from Evans’s brain – where the hell he found a shooting range on such short notice and why that sparked off the synapses in conclusion that it was a perfect idea, she’s not sure and not sure she wants to know. He’d justified it to her and Jeremy specifically with the claim that it was, yet again, more character development work.

“You guys are super spies. I don’t know about you, but I think if you’ve at least had one experience handling a real gun, that’ll translate beautifully on screen. Joss would be proud.” Paired with the inflictions in his voice and ridiculous smile, it didn’t take a genius to see him deliberately braiding together the bullshit together.

It’s not like she would have said no. Her brain has been clouded by the Plague and any excuse she can find to not spend quality time alone with her thoughts and reality, she’s taking.

Plus, she’s got a certain Chris to outshoot and prove her superiority to once and for all.

They’re in lanes adjacent to each other – Hemsworth is on her left, Jeremy on her right, and even though she’s trying to enjoy herself in making Hemsworth eat his words, she’s tasting more than just a competitive victory on her tongue.

She’s tasting blood, and it’s no one’s but her own.

There’s finally a light at the end of the Ryan tunnel, and the closer she gets, the more she starts to contemplate the legitimacy of it. Is it really the sun, or is it just some illusion she’s dreamed up as she trudges through the dark, trying to tell herself it’ll get better, because she can’t live in hell forever even if she’s done her fair share to wind up there?

She doesn’t know. She just knows she’s pissed with herself, she’s pissed with Ryan, she’s pissed with Blake, she’s pissed with their lawyers and the judge and the person who invented divorce and the person who invented marriage and everyone in between. It’s easy to freeze Sean out while she’s busy growing icicles to service as a body of armor. He has somehow managed to enter the crosshairs and if she’s as trigger happy as she is now, there’s no way they will walk out of this. She’s not sure she wants to.

After all, she’s having a little too much fun firing into a paper target and destroying something that isn’t her life for once.

It also helps that there’s no imminent fear of Evans accidentally firing through the lane walls and sending one of them to the emergency room and she can lose herself in the rhythm, find a catharsis in ripping holes through a target the same way she’d tear into herself if she could.

Because, at the end of the day, no matter how stupid or horny her soon to be ex-husband was, she’s still to blame.

She blinks as her finger presses down on the trigger, watching the last bullet tear through the target the same way the end of her marriage tore through three perfectly good years of her life that she can't get back. 

“I still am failing to see how this is a bonding experience,” she hears Jeremy saying as she lowers the gun and steps back from the lane partitions, letting the headphones come to rest around her neck.

“We’re experiencing it together,” Evans tries.

“Experiencing what? Your bad aim?”

“Brother, I can guarantee you I’ve never had bad aim a day in my life. We can call up any girl in my phone to testify to that.”

“Scarlett? Thoughts?”

She’s shaken into the present of the conversation once they name drop her, returning from whatever observatory she’d been sitting in watching through the telescope. “What?” she asks as she re-enters reality, Hemsworth, Evans, and Jeremy staring back at her almost expectantly.

Jeremy pulls his lower lip into a pout as he backhands Evans lightly on the chest. “Tough break. You weren’t even worth remembering.”

“What is it that wasn’t even worth remembering?”

Hemsworth gestures between the two of them. “The two of you. Obviously a thing at one point, right?”

Scarlett’s face twists up in vitriol, sticking her tongue out as she pretends to gag. “God, don’t make me break the range rules and put myself out of my own misery at _that_ thought.”

“Really? You two never hooked up?”

Evans laughs right as Scarlett vehemently insists, “Absolutely not.”

Hemsworth looks skeptical, an eyebrow cocked in question. “Never?”

“Evans wished,” Scarlett replies nonchalantly, Evans scoffing indignantly at what is an absolutely true remark. The oceans would rise before he admitted it to anyone (including Scarlett) but when they were filming _Perfect Score_, she’d had him wound tight enough around her finger that if she told him to stop breathing, it would have only taken thirty seconds. He’d had it bad for her for the first few months despite trying to act indifferent. Everyone in the goddamn cast had fucked around with each other – she’d walked in on Evans and Erika twice, and Bryan had only lasted three minutes when she blew him fresh out of the shower – but the idea of casual sex with Evans brought on some aversion she couldn’t explain and still can’t. She figures that if after kissing each other for years on and off screen and seeing each other naked on several occasions never made her feel anything, nothing ever will.

Eventually, he lost the doe eyes when he looked at her and she felt comfortable enough to laugh relentlessly at his crush on her without fearing she was stomping down on a landmine.

“Wished that you’d stop name-dropping me in your diary, J,” he fires back in retaliation. She just rolls her eyes.

“In ‘ya dreams.” She tightens the short ponytail at the back of her head, despite the escaped strands of hair stubbornly clinging to her neck. “Just like Hemi over here dreaming that he somehow outdid me.”

“Best two out of three?” he challenges.

Scarlett shoots him a glimmering smile as she reaches for her headphones. “You’re on.”

The rhythm of pulling the trigger consumes her again – the competitive streak makes her want to be the best, but she’s motivated by picturing Ryan’s face on the target. And then Blake’s. And then her own. And she just keeps going, letting bullets rip through the paper like it’s water and her animosity fuel every shot she takes.

One for letting herself get tangled in some compromising position.

One to prove to Hemsworth she can, in fact, pull off firing with her right hand.

One for how stupid she sounded every time she opened her mouth in the hope Ryan would wake up.

One for not realizing she was the one who was fast asleep.

One because she’s lost in the motions now.

One for how stupid she is for letting this consume her and define her and rule any town in her empire, and another for how stupid she is in thinking that she can play off a complete upheaval as nothing but a minor blip on the radar.

One for feeling too much, and one for not feeling enough.

One for good measure.

One just because. 

She knows when well enough needs a break – for now, it looks a lot like her trembling hands and a gun that’s out of ammunition and a target that’s nothing but shreds. The adrenaline is still humming in her veins from whatever hornet’s nest she’s stirred up in the process as she sits the gun down on the shelf, taking a small step back.

“Damn, Johansson,” Hemsworth drawls. “Remind me to never piss you off.”

The smile she pulls this time is fake, plastic stretching across her cheeks as she pretends the small laugh she summons is real.

“Gonna grab some air before round three,” she says smoothly, the lie rolling off her tongue much easier than the truth ever would.

She walks like everything is fine but she can’t burst through the doors of the range fast enough, it seems, with sunlight sprawling through the glass doors and windows that's waiting on her when she steps outside. The world beyond her thoughts is moving by languidly, thin wisps of clouds taking their time scrolling through the sky. It’s a stark contrast to the way the breath is racing in her lungs as she rounds the corner that faces the parking lot, trying to still her mind for even just a second.

Scarlett doesn’t remember the last time she felt this strung out in regards to the Divorce thing. That’s part of the problem, though: she chooses to let it grow and flourish until all the weeds have grown strong enough to wrap around her throat and choke her. She pushes it into drawers and pretends that it doesn’t exist, and then when someone takes a sledgehammer to the furniture and the wood splinters open, it greedily takes its freedom to run circles around the room.

Perhaps that’s the mistake in her approach. It’s either all she thinks about or it hardly ever crosses her mind, and the polarization of the predicament just means each return to the other end of the spectrum comes about more forcefully than the one before it.

“There’s no right way to go about a divorce,” Cece had told her one night when Scarlett was too busy trying to forget Ryan Reynolds even existed with a line of Kamikazes. “There’s no good guy, no bad guy.”

“Bullshit,” Scarlett had spat out. “There’s always somebody to blame.”

“Well, who do you wanna blame? You? Him? Her? Whoever was your witness and signed the marriage certificate?”

“That would be Hunter.”

“Point is, it’s a shitty situation. No matter who gets the dog—”

“—that would be him—”

“—or who gets the house or whatever else, it sucks. It’s gonna suck. You just have to get through it.”

“And then what?”

“Things will suck a little less.”

“That’s real comforting, Cece,” Scarlett had snarled, grabbing another glass and tossing it back. “Maybe you missed your calling as a life coach.”

“It’s one of the dozens of jobs you pay me to do.” The look Scarlett gave her questioned it, and she’d let it go – it’s the patented approach she’s stuck with ever since she got Ryan and Blake _together_ burned into her eyelids. Cling to it tightly, let it go. Grieve, thank the lucky stars that send her a knowing wink every now and then. Circle the drain, dance in a shower of champagne every night of the week. Feel the tightness and ache in her cheeks from where she's cried herself to sleep multiple nights in a row, remember what it's like to laugh. The twisting knot in her stomach or the indifference whenever someone mentions them in casual conversation. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Round and round they go.

“Hey.” Jeremy’s voice is the snap of the rubber band back into the moment. Judging by the way he halts in his tracks, she’s got startled written all across her face. “Did I scare you?”

“Just not expecting you,” she mutters, her shoulders dropping back into their off-guard position. “Come to check on me or something?”

“Or something,” he agrees. He stops a few paces away, standing next to her.

“I’m good,” she insists, and even she doesn’t really believe the words when she hears them spoken out loud. It’s worth a try, though.

“I know,” Jeremy replies, because he’s too good of a sport – perhaps too good of a person – to call her on her bluff like he probably ought to. She leans up against the brick wall, tipping her head back until it collides. “Want one?” Jeremy asks her, and when she looks over, he’s got a box of Marlboros extended her way.

Well, if he's offering. She plucks one from the box, rolling it around in between her fingers while Jeremy fishes his lighter out of the back pocket of his jeans. Both eyebrows furrow together. “They let you bring a lighter into a firing range?”

“It’s not a firework shop, Scar.”

“Yeah, but I can’t imagine it boding well when a spark hits gunpowder.”

“Fair enough.”

She holds out the cigarette, watching as he tries to get a flame to take. The end finally lights up and she brings it to her lips, taking a long drag. The nicotine buzzes around the edges of her lips and when she exhales in a cloud of smoke, she lets the fog snake through her brain. “Don’t ever get married,” she finds herself advising, because apparently all it takes is one hit to get all philosophical.

Jeremy’s laugh is acerbic. “Ain’t gotta worry about me getting into that kind of trouble. Marriage is not for me.”

Scarlett blows out another stream of smoke. “Isn’t for me either.”

No one ever wants to push or pry at the boards to see what they can spring loose, and Jeremy is no exception to the rule. She can feel him tip-toeing around it with his silence. A sigh breaks in her chest like a wave as she slumps somewhat defeatedly into the wall. “You don’t have to act like it’s some weird thing,” she informs him. “It won’t send me scattering in pieces if you bring it up.”

He balances the cigarette between his lips as he lights it, waiting until after he’s able to take a hit before replying. “I know,” he says. “But I figure you don’t talk about it for a reason, so…” The words trail off, and following a cloud of smoke is the knowing look of his eyes piercing straight through to her. “I don’t push.”

The sentiment behind it is nice, anyways. But he can sense some of the same apprehension that’s making a crescendo in her chest, because he adds, “If you wanna talk about it, though…”

And just like that, it’s as though the dam breaks.

Scarlett lets her lungs fill with smoke before she lets the words spill over, hoping it’ll numb some of the pain that's still there when the story catches on the ripped edges and pulls no matter how much she sands her emotions down. “My lawyer texted me. That’s ridiculous, right?” She looks to him for some kind of affirmation. “Your divorce lawyer texting you on any given Monday?” The bitter ghost of a laugh passes by quickly, her eyes fixing up towards the sky. “Apparently our papers are on their way to being finalized.”

“That a good thing?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. We both wanted out. _Want_ out. As fast as we can.”

“It was that bad?”

“Not at first.” It had been good, and for a long time, too. They were good together. Ryan was exceptionally talented at pulling her out of her head, getting her to take a step back and actually enjoy a moment while she was still in it. They’d gotten together right after leaving serious relationships – only hindsight revealed the true color of the light that wasn’t so green after all – and somewhere in the midst of just enjoying each other’s company, she fell for him. Hard.

Harder than she ever had before, because she’d jumped the second he got down on one knee.

She remembers their wedding like it was yesterday. The exact color of Vanessa’s bridesmaid dress. The way she’d fixed her hair before the ceremony and how she’d burned two fingers with the curling iron, them throbbing whenever she curled them around her bouquet. The way winter had already started seeping into Tofino’s temperature, the goosebumps on her arms and how Ryan had rubbed at them to try and generate a little body heat. How he’d let her smash cake into his face like a good sport and when he kissed her to try and get icing on her face in retaliation, he tasted like buttercream. She remembers her vows and his and the distinct taste of the air that day because back then, she’d wanted it to be a flavor she remembered forever. It feels like a borrowed memory now, a memory from someone who hadn’t yet been broken down by ultimatums and indifference and timezones and another woman’s perfume.

“The Blake thing,” Jeremy says, and the restraint in his voice makes it clear he is treading lightly. “Is that what…”

“Happened?” Scarlett finishes for him. “Yeah. Amongst other things, but it was the point of no return.”

“When did you find out?”

“When I went to visit him in Louisiana. Took one look at him when I got off the plane and I just _knew_.” The embers in her cigarette are on their dying glow, and she rolls the cigarette between her fingers absently. “I told him I could forgive it. The distance was a lot; we’d both been working, never spent time together anymore, so it wasn’t surprising that he ran into some other woman’s arms. But I told him I’d only forgive it once. Shoulda known right then and there it wasn’t an _I’m lonely and you’re good for keeping my bed warm_ kind of thing, but there’s that whole saying about love being blind. ‘S not blind,” she corrects hardly. “It’s just stupid.”

“So…what, you just let Blake have him?”

Her head lolls to the side, resting into her shoulder as she flashes him a sad smile. “He was already hers. Sometimes you fight, and other times, you’re better off just giving up. Besides, I told him I’d only forgive it once. Wasn’t about to make myself look even more like an idiot letting it slide a second time and sticking around when I’d clearly been replaced.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Jeremy’s quick to counter.

“Maybe,” she hums skeptically. She doesn’t say that she doesn’t believe that for a second. She doesn’t say that Ryan was the first person to make her feel like the human she always wanted others to see in her – the world saw the unattainable and marked it as a dream. Ryan made it very clear that she was just as disposable as anyone else.

“You’re not. Or replaceable.” He reaches out, fingers curving around her shoulder in a reassuring squeeze. “It’s his loss, Scar.”

Her lips press into a thin smile. “Thanks.”

“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.” His hand remains on her shoulder, and she’s grateful for it. The weight, the pressure, his presence: it’s reassuring a part of her that has been restless and wild ever since she’d slammed Ryan’s trailer door behind her after The Confrontation, so angry she couldn’t see straight. “And, for what it’s worth, I think you’ll be just fine after this.”

One of her eyebrows quirks up in curiosity. “Yeah?”

“Hell yeah. You’re young, successful, and I guess you’re okay to look at.” She rolls her eyes, and he breaks out into a grin. “They don't make 'em like you."

"Which is what, exactly?"

"Flexible." For a minute, she considers backhanding him in the chest just to get him in line, but then she realizes what connotation he's adopted. "I don't think you're built to fall apart after a single storm."

Scarlett mulls over his words for a moment as she drops the cigarette butt onto the ground, grinding it into the concrete. Marriage has been more than a storm in her sky, it's been a hurricane. It's ripped off the roof and blown in the walls and left an ungodly mess for her to sift through in the aftermath, but she reckons the remaining foundations have to count for something. 

“Well, if I ever have another marriage in the forecast, I’m counting on you to rein me back in.” Some of the lighthearted quip has found its way back into her voice and she feels peace settling back inside her skin. 

"I got you, sweetheart."

There's something about the way he says it that makes her think he means it. 


	10. black leather jacket (bad reputation) insatiable habits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> regular updates for the WIN. this fic really has been my sanity for the past few weeks - i work hard and look forward to the moments in which i can sit down, open my word doc, and just lose myself in the past with these lovable morons. your comments and kudos and all the other love you show me and this fic across my other social media...places? whatevers? seriously make my fucking day. i might be yelling into the void at this point, but i'll keep on yelling as long as there's someone around to listen! rennerson will die when i do, tbh. your weekly reminder that if jeremy renner is not in black widow (and i don't get to yell about it in a theater) i'm going to sue someone. probably marcel. he's my favorite target as of late. #replaced
> 
> chapter title is from camila cabello & dababy's 'my oh my.' lately i spend what little free time i do have on twitter @emswifts just yelling about how i don't deserve access to my bank account, and tweeting gifs of clown 1 and 2 to taylor swift lyrics, so come hang out with me if that sounds even slightly up your alley. happy reading xx

There’s an unusual bounce in Jeremy’s step, and Scarlett is determined to get to the bottom of it. She figures she’ll have to pull teeth to get him to spill – especially if it’s got something to do with getting laid – but he comes clean without a fight. (It’s kind of a bummer; she was looking forward to getting creative.)

“Me and Mark got tickets for Mötley Crüe on Sunday,” Jeremy says, sifting through his deck of cards. “Got any eights?”

“Is this a date?” She pitches her voice an octave lower, eyebrows moving suggestively as she slaps down an eight as requested.

“You are ridiculous.”

“Hey, it’s an honest question.” She fans her cards out a little more to get a better scope of what she’s got in her hand, a slight frown tugging on her lips.

“I like Mötley Crüe, He likes Mötley Crüe. We’re gonna be bored this weekend. Might as well get into some organized trouble – better organized than off the leash.” This is true: they’re going on a mini hiatus this week because Sam’s got another obligation and they can’t move forward until he’s back in the game, which opens all kind of doors that should probably stay closed. That, and they’ll definitely find trouble if trouble doesn’t find them first.

“I like Mötley Crüe, too,” she muses offhandedly. “Got any threes?”

He doesn’t put anything down or pass it off, so she glances up at him to see what the hold up is. He’s staring back at her almost skeptically. “What?”

“You like Mötley Crüe?”

Her face slips into a deadpan expression, red hair sliding down her shoulder as her head tips. “Don’t sound so surprised,” she chides him. “I do have some redeemable qualities.”

“You wanna go?”

It takes a moment for her to decipher if he’s joking, if he’s asking her because he wants her to go, or if he’s just asking her because he feels bad that she’s made some mention of it (in which case she’ll feel guilty for even running her mouth). She decides to play it off as indifference, shrugging casually. “Can you even get another ticket?”

“Red, if you wanna go, we’ll get ‘ya in the door.” She’s not sure she wants to know by what means he can arrange that out of fear he’ll tell her something that she might have to turn around and reiterate in a court of law.

“Will Mark be mad that I’m ruining bro night?”

Jeremy rolls his eyes as he hands her the three of hearts to add to her hand. “I think Mark is just excited for a night out without kids in tow.”

“Pretty sure we’ve already had several of those.”

“When you have kids, apparently there’s no shortage of them.”

She finds out about the Mötley Crüe show on Thursday, and by Saturday, Jeremy’s got her covered. Mark and Jeremy live in the same neighborhood but Scarlett’s closer to Hard Rock, so they decide to meet at Scarlett’s place Sunday night and carpool. Better to shove three Avengers into one car than the other way around, apparently.

About an hour before anyone's supposed to be at her house, the doorbell catches Scarlett in the bathroom fixing her hair in nothing but her underwear completely off-guard. She tugs on a shirt just in case it’s Publisher’s Clearing House and she’s about to be on camera.

“Oh,” she says when she opens up the door and it’s just Jeremy, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. Her shoulders drop, relaxation falling over her. No free money and balloons and obnoxious salespeople. “Hey.”

“Hay’s for horses, Red.”

“I wasn’t expecting you this early,” she defends herself.

Jeremy tips his thumb over his shoulder. “I could always sit in the car for the next hour if you’d like.”

Scarlett opens the door a little wider, gesturing for him to come in. “Make yourself at home,” she says, waiting until he’s at least three feet past the threshold before letting the door slam back into the frame. “I need to go put on a bra, amongst other things.”

She beelines past him, not without catching the glimmer of a smirk he’s harboring from the corner of her eyes. _Boys_.

Once she gets back in the bathroom and has a chance to look in the mirror, she realizes she probably should have put some shorts on, seeing as how her ass is definitely not concealed with the length of her shirt. She hopes that the neighbors aren’t fond of window watching.

Jeremy finds his way through the house to where she is, sitting down on the very edge of her bed while she resumes drying the bottom layer of her hair. She’s quickly learned the difference between low and less maintenance – having less hair is just less work for her. There’s nothing low maintenance about keeping her hair from doing something that makes her haircut resemble a fluffy mushroom.

He's content to sit in silence, pulling out his phone to check for something – she’s not sure, they can’t exactly have a conversation without yelling over her hairdryer. It’s nice to just be in the presence of someone, not worried about filling the space between them with meaningless words and conversation to keep them afloat. She’s comfortable with him. Where the limits and lines exist, she hasn’t found yet, but good things are good things and she’s been working on not staring relentlessly at something until she sees what she’s actively looking for.

She does notice that his eyes don’t wander down to her ass when she breezes by in pursuit of her closet, where there’s a handful of clothes hanging up and the rest still sitting inside of her suitcases.

“Are we gambling tonight?” she asks, leaning back so she can look directly through the doorway at Jeremy.

“Is that even an option?”

She shrugs exaggeratedly, before she moves out of his line in sight in order to propel up on her tiptoes and pull a sundress of hers off the hanger. Something tells her that even after the sun goes down, it will still be too hot for pants. “This place is a casino, right?”

“Don’t think they’ll be doing an encore next to the slot machine, but what do I know?” He falls silent for a moment, before adding, “Why? You tryna cash out tonight?”

“Dunno,” she clucks her tongue in contemplation, holding out the dress and giving it a quick once over. Not exactly Mötley Crüe material with the tiny flowers, but her options are limited. “Kinda want to. Also just kinda want to get hammered.”

“The hammered bit we can _definitely_ arrange. Especially since Mark’s car is gonna be the last in your driveway – last in, first out.”

She steps back into the doorframe once she’s wiggled the dress over her head and past her hips, mischievous smile currently paying rent. “I like how you think, Renner.”

Scarlett leaves her hair as it is and forgoes trying to do anything with her face. Instead, she puts on the same pair of Converse she’s had for years that are only a few steps away from falling off her feet and invites Jeremy to accompany her to the kitchen, where she’s got a bottle of vodka waiting on them.

She doesn’t have any shot glasses – yet – so she makes do with the same glasses she’s been drinking out of, bending down to get on eye level with the counter to eyeball what she thinks is a shot’s worth. “It’s not a science, Red,” he wheezes, leaning up against the sink as he folds his arms over his chest.

“Hey, perfectionism kills just as much as liver failure.”

She straightens up, placing the bottle back on the counter and passing off one of the glasses to him with a smile. “Head start,” is all she has for a grand toast, bumping her cup against his before bringing it up to her lips.

Lately, she hasn’t been picky in how her alcohol tastes – frankly, she wouldn’t be too opposed to paint thinner, so long as it did the trick – but it’s clearly not what Jeremy is anticipating. “Goddamn, Red,” he spits out once he knocks his glass back, face scrunching up. “How do you expect anyone to keep up with you when that’s your pick of poison?”

“You sayin’ you can’t hang, old man?” she teases, eyebrows lifted suggestively.

He coughs out his laugh, shaking his head. “The liver failure will kill faster than your need for perfection, that’s for damn sure.”

Interesting theory, she thinks. She doesn’t realize she’s said it out loud too, until she catches the quizzical look he’s giving her over the rim of his cup.

Mark shows up ready to embarrass them with his baseball cap that all but has ‘I’m a father to young children that hasn’t had a night out in ages’ printed across it in giant block letters. He agrees to drive, which is good, because the night is young and Scarlett doesn’t plan to hit the brakes. 

The crowd milling around at Hard Rock is a blend of what Scarlett expects and what she doesn’t – they’re able to slip under the radar pretty nicely. Mark accredits this to his ingenious incognito attire (“No one would ever expect me to be wearing this.” “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”) but Scarlett accredits it to the fact that they are not the main attraction, and therefore no one cares.

They’re waiting in line at the bar, a fairly popular idea judging by how it snakes through a few sets of stanchions blocking them in. Scarlett is sandwiched between the boys, arms folded over her chest as she glances over the drink menu advertised overhead. Jeremy and Mark are talking over her about something that has to do with rock music, she thinks, a conversation that easily goes tuned out.

“Did you see them back when they were on Dr. Feelgood?”

“Hell yeah. I was nineteen. What I thought was the best fuckin’ night of my life.”

Right. They’re old. She’s not.

At least they’re good for making her feel young about herself when they talk about things from their teenage years, a time when she was barely a thought in her parent’s brains as a solution to saving their marriage or just beginning to transition out of unintelligible gibberish to the English language.

“What took its place?”

Scarlett glances over at Jeremy as the conversation hooks into her and drags her in the loop – he’s got a wicked smirk draped over his lips. “I’ll leave that up to your imagination,” he hints, to which Mark laughs at like it’s some inside joke he’s been given the punchline to ahead of time.

Scarlett can’t help to roll her eyes, which Jeremy catches. “Oh, what?” he pokes his fun. “Have you regressed back to the Victorian era for the evening?”

“Boys,” is the explanation she draws out in a knowing tone, her lips curling up into a half-smile.

An involuntary shudder ripples through her, one that she can’t exactly contain that’s result of a chill in the air rushing by. “You cold?” Jeremy asks, and before Scarlett can say no, he’s peeling off the leather jacket and draping it around her shoulders.

“My knight in shining armor,” she says as her thanks, pulling it across her chest.

“Anytime, Red.”

She and Jeremy order up the largest beer that they serve, Mark only settling for one drink since he’s technically the DD. They weave through the increasingly thickening crowd on the way to their seats, Scarlett mindful to not let her beer slosh over and down onto her shoes by pursing her lips against the rim of the cup and sipping some of the top off. Jeremy is methodical in how he leads the way through the Pavilion, side-stepping other fans and finding what is the closest thing to a beeline to their seats. All Scarlett can do is follow behind him.

At one point, Jeremy’s free hand twists behind his back, outstretched for the taking so they don’t get separated. She doesn’t think anything of it, just grasps his palm tightly.

His hand is warm, the spaces between her fingers suddenly filled as he shifts their grip so they are interlocked and they’d lose their hands before they lost each other.

Their seats are in a pit right up against the stage, off to the right. “Damn, how much do I owe you for these seats?” Scarlett asks, having to raise the volume of her voice to be heard over the music playing and the chatter swarming them. They slide into their row, hers and Jeremy’s hands still tightly interwoven.

Jeremy looks back over his shoulder with an exasperated expression. “Get real.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“I’ll ask Mark and find out,” she resolves, bringing her beer back up to her mouth.

“I didn’t let him pay for his, either, so good luck with that.”

“That’s right, this is date night for you boys.” Both of her eyebrows vault higher along her forehead. “Want me to move out of the way so you’ve got clear access?”

“Become a comedian, sweetheart.”

“That’s my backup plan.”

It doesn’t take long after their arrival for the lights to drop and the show to start. The music is mind-numbingly loud, the bass throbbing in the column of her throat when she opens her mouth to sing along. Everything around her seems to move within elongated freeze frames, the only moments she can really remember are the ones when there’s a flash of light over them. Losing herself is easier to do here than it has been in months; she’s a face in a crowd with the spectacle somewhere else. Someone else gets the spotlight, and she gets a bassline in her veins and a buzz in her system.

Jeremy and Mark have their mostly-empty beers held up during Home Sweet Home, lost in the moment like everyone else around them. Scarlett can’t put a finger on what possesses her to start drifting from the prescribed orbit, but she finds herself searching for something warm and sturdy between her fingertips, and Jeremy’s gravity is strong. She falls into him, wrapping one of her arms around his waist and letting him tug her into his side in a hug.

When he looks down to sing the chorus in her face, his eyes are sparkling – something likely courtesy of the alcohol and the way music breathes a different kind of life into him – and his chin doubles down as he smiles.

She smiles back up at him, letting him ruffle the top of her hair.

Somehow, their fingers snake back together; she locks her fingers around his hand that’s hanging off the edge of her shoulder, the weight of his arm around her comforting. In the hollow pit of her stomach, she can feel the acidity of the beer burning a path for her to swallow the drums and let them resonate there. It is a twisted, aching sort of feeling, one that should probably make her think twice, but she embraces it.

There’s a couple in front of them, so far gone in the music – and, frankly, each other – that they don’t care who happens to see them and take note of how handsy they are. They make for solid sub-entertainment when a member of the band isn’t on the stage in front of them, so close that it wouldn’t take much reaching to brush their fingers against them.

Scarlett will give Jeremy a sharp nudge to the side with her elbow to get him to catch another moment of them openly groping at one another, and then the groping that turns to grinding. They exchange knowing looks, twin smiles, and Scarlett will occasionally bite back a laugh into Jeremy’s shoulder. She’s not passing any judgment – she thinks it’s great that they have each other and feel comfortable enough within the confines of Vince’s singing to no longer give a fuck. If anything, they’re something like her heroes.

“Bet you another beer they’re outta here after two more songs to fuck in the bathroom,” Jeremy has to yell in her ear, his lips brushing over the very edge of her skin.

He pulls back, and she returns the favor, Jeremy inching down slightly to meet her halfway. “Bet you a Redbull and vodka that they just fuck here.”

Even over the music, Jeremy’s laugh is impossible to miss. It’s another rush to her system that makes it impossible to lose her smile.

The grinding becomes a little jerkier, Mark finally catches on and his eyes nearly bug out of his head with what he sees, and Scarlett has to slip away during Tommy Lee’s solo to order a round for her and Jeremy. It’s a round she doesn’t mind covering at all in the slightest.

It’s what sets her over the edge, losing a faint buzz in exchange for something a little stronger. Somewhere like this, surrounded by a lack of inhibition and grittiness and people living without a care for how those around them perceive, it’s the very place that Scarlett needs to pay rent to even for just an hour in order to get her sanity back. It’s where she feels like she belongs. Somewhere a little fucked up, a little too messy and imperfect and probably someone’s very antithesis of being that they’d scoff and look down on as they thought themselves better.

She and Jeremy shout the words to Girls, Girls, Girls at each other, feeling the effects of the vodka start to take place and relinquishing their control as their singing devolves into glorified yells and their dancing deteriorates. She lets him sloppily spin her under his arm in a circle, pushing her back before reeling her in. It elicits a hearty laugh from her and the way he smiles is like a spotlight fixating on one point and staying there.

There’s suddenly a tap on her shoulder, Scarlett whirling around to the reminder of Mark – sober, sober Mark – standing behind her. “I just got a text,” he all but screams over the music, Scarlett’s dancing coming to a grinding halt as he waves the phone like some kind of beacon.

Scarlett makes grabby hands for the phone, the light in their pocket of darkness blinding. She has to pull it away from her face to adjust before inching it back closer, eyes skimming over the swimming words. Her head darts up after reading it a few times just to let the words sink in. “No fucking way,” she yells.

Mark nods fervidly. “Yes fucking way!”

“No way!” she repeats, because originality in her thoughts is lacking.

Warmth spreads from the back of her hips around her sides, a pair of hands winding around her and a steady chest beneath her back. She spins around in the grip, Jeremy waiting behind her. “What is it?”

She doesn’t know if the smile will split her face in half or not. “You ever met Nikki Sixx?”

It’s almost comedic, the way his face drops in a second flat, and she can’t suppress the giggle that bubbles up in her throat. “Don’t mess with my heart like that, Red.”

The phone in her hand gets waved around. “I don’t joke about the legends.”

“Who the fuck pulled that for us, Jesus?”

“Mark’s people.”

“Mark,” Jeremy yells around her shoulder. “You work with Jesus.”

“I know!”

“Will Jesus prefer fruit or muffin baskets as my undying thanks?”

They have to miss Kickstart My Heart to clear out before the show ends, Mark taking on the role of their fearless leader while Jeremy and Scarlett pull each other through the Pavilion hand in hand. Everything is significantly quieter once they’re back in the concourse; Scarlett feels like her footsteps are louder than the distant noise of the song.

A crew member meets them near one of the closing bars, greeting Mark with the universal handshake-hug. “Your people work quick,” he says, and Mark shrugs.

“They work behind my back, but I suppose it’s for the best.”

“Damn straight it’s for the best,” Jeremy comments, even though only Scarlett is paying attention to him.

“You gonna cry?” she teases as they’re lead down a concrete hallway that leads to the artist tunnels.

Jeremy puffs out his chest, exhaling in contempt. “I’m not gonna _cry_.”

“’Cause if you cry,” Scarlett continues on solemnly, swinging their hands that are still entwined. “I promise that I won’t tell Chris and Rob.”

“Gee, Red, you’re such a good friend.”

“Best you’ve ever had,” she agrees cheerily.

“Do I look drunk?” he asks. “Because I’ll kill myself if I look drunk in the picture someone better take of me and the band.”

She does a quick once-over of him before giving him a nod of approval. “You look lovely and sober.”

They go through what seems like a labyrinth of tunnels until they reach their destination, a small hub in the tunnels populated with people passing out water bottles and speaking into walkie-talkies. Amidst the people are Tommy, Vince, Nikki and Mick, looking entirely normal despite being Mötley Crüe and having just finished a show. Jeremy practically freezes in his tracks when he sets his sights on them and Scarlett has to yank him forward, Mark and his crew member friend not bothering to check and see if they’re in line or not.

“Brought you a present!” the crew member calls out to the band, the four of them looking up and sauntering to meet them somewhere in the middle.

“Is this an unofficial Avengers thing?” Tommy asks them with a smile as he approaches, and this is probably the first time Scarlett has ever seen Jeremy’s bravado threatened.

“Can’t be official without our fearless leader,” Mark says, radiating a calmness that Scarlett can’t figure out where he’s conjured up. Part of their jobs include networking and bumping elbows with the greats, the same people that were on the posters on their bedroom wall. They’re people, too, but there are some who are just too large to ever fit within the confines of normalcy and it makes it a little hard to not feel the full effects of being starstruck.

“Where is he?”

“At the Black Sabbath show down the street.”

“Goddamn,” Nikki swears. “Can’t compete with Ozzy.”

“So good to meet you,” Mark says.

“You too, man.” Nikki’s attention keeps him scanning the company. “Scarlett Johansson, isn’t it?”

Her and Jeremy’s hands separate like they were never together at all. “Yeah,” she exhales, suddenly feeling breathless as Nikki opens his arms to greet her with a hug and the formality of a kiss on the cheek. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself. Enjoy the show?”

“Loved. I’m a big fan.”

“Likewise.”

She grins, and adds in just because she can’t help it, “My brother’s gonna be so jealous. He’s the one who got me into you guys.”

“Damn,” Nikki laughs. “Sucks to be him.”

“Sure does.”

Nikki moves in to say hi to Jeremy, who has seemingly remembered how to function and regained enough control over his tongue to not make a fool of himself. Mark is busy talking with Vince, so Scarlett says hi to Tommy and gets caught up in a conversation about his kids. She reminds herself not to ask about Pamela Anderson. Probably a massive no-no.

“You want something to drink?” Tommy asks her. “Few of us usually do shots after a show.”

“Oh, I’m so down for a shot,” Scarlett says, because similarly to Jeremy, she will kill herself if she turns down an opportunity to do shots with Mötley Crüe. She has to make Hunter and Adrian want to eat their own fucking left arm out of jealousy when she recounts this at Thanksgiving.

Scarlett wrangles Jeremy into joining them, Nikki holding out the shot glass as gesture for a toast. “Awesome night, awesome people.” When Scarlett looks at Jeremy, she swears she sees his cheeks flush at the prospect of being awesome in Nikki Sixx’s eyes. This is like Christmas has come early.

They clink their glasses together, throwing back the shot – pure vodka, and definitely not the cheap shit, either.

“We should get a picture,” Mick suggests, and it’s like lightning the way that Jeremy snaps to wrangling everyone in their positions.

“Are we allowed to say that we even got to hang out with you guys, or do we gotta sign an NDA first?” Vince jokes in between waving down one of their assistants with a camera.

“We’ll require you burn the picture after taking it,” Mark deadpans. “Joss will kill us if he finds out we’ve gone rogue for the evening.”

“Oh, so this is your jailbreak? We’re flattered.”

Jeremy leans in a little closer to Scarlett, his comment specifically for her ears. “It’s a damn good thing we don’t have to run laps tomorrow. Otherwise, they’d be scraping me off the pavement.”

She groans, head tipping back. “If we had work tomorrow, I’d be paying Heidi by the hour to pretend to be me.”

They scrunch together in front of the camera, Scarlett practically tucked under Tommy’s armpit and on the side of Jeremy that isn’t currently flanked by Nikki, an end point that she doesn’t find herself surprised arriving at. No matter how much physical distance they put between themselves, they somehow find their way back.

“Alright, one, two…” The camera flash goes off, and Vince groans.

“I think I blinked!”

“Motherfucker, you are wearing _sunglasses.”_

They spend a little while longer mingling and swapping moments of fawning over one another before Scarlett starts to physically feel the weight tugging under her eyes and knows that passing out is not too far off on her horizon. Fortunately, the feeling is apparently mutual, especially with Mötley Crüe having to clear out of the venue. They all disperse with their goodbyes and see you laters promises to email the picture to each other before passing on to TMZ and the rest of the vultures.

She sits beside Jeremy in the backseat on the way home, his leather jacket tugged a little tighter across her chest as the air conditioning blasts through the car. Mark’s playing the radio at a quiet volume, the music likely the very thing that’s keeping him awake and from swerving into a ditch.

Her head is growing too heavy to hold upright, dropping it down onto Jeremy’s shoulder. She glances down before her eyes shut, taking notice of how their hands are placed on the seat only inches from each other’s. “Thanks for letting me crash your bro date,” she slurs quietly. “I had a good night.”

“Me too, Red. Wouldn’t have wanted to meet Nikki Sixx with anyone else.”

Tonight, she realizes in a moment of inebriated clarity as the road sails underneath her and the alcohol presses deeper into the desire to drift off to sleep, is the first time she's actually felt free. No cages, no strings. No feeling guilty for not answering phone calls, no one to shut out or resent the very existence of. No sad looks. No sad thoughts. Just catharsis in shouting and dancing, a drunken freedom. Freedom all the same.

And Scarlett knows what she has to do.

She wakes up somewhere around noon and is on a flight to LA by one-thirty. Overall, she’s nursing the post-show hangover, the alcohol not making a solid dent in its contribution to her headache. Her throat’s a little sore, she’s pretty sure she can still smell the casino on her skin and T-shirt, and she’ll need at least two more showers to wash off the remains of last night. The plane ride drags out forever – she keeps her sunglasses on through the whole flight despite having the shades pulled down, trying to play catch up on the sleep her bones are craving.

It’s overcast when she gets to California. A breeze flows steadily in the air, making her grateful for bringing along a jacket - it's the same jacket from last night, the jacket that had been laying on the corner of her bed this morning where she'd stripped it off seconds before tumbling into bed and falling asleep last night and was just the first thing her hand touched to bring along for the ride. (It adds the scent of Jeremy's aftershave to the mix, a more pleasant addition that doesn't make her feel absolutely disgusting.) The cab ride turns her stomach a little bit, mostly because she’s now on the downward slope and really could go for a cheeseburger and some curly fries. Loose ends first, fast food second.

She gets to the house and practically drags herself up the steps to the front door. The key’s like a cinder block in her bag, weighing it down despite being nearly impossible to locate. She fumbles with it even once she finds it in the depths, it taking a few tries to get it in the lock at just the right angle and an exceptionally hard jerk to get it open.

Time, Scarlett’s learned, isn’t always the linear sun-up to sun-down it’s advertised as. Some moments race ahead while others remain frozen in place, taking their time as they thaw. The house isn’t even close to a melting point, exactly as she’d left it a month ago. If she looks closely, she wonders if she’ll see the ghosts still on paused, the person she is now watching on at what she already knows is coming. A fleeting thought brightens up the dark sky in her mind for only a fizzling flash, of if she can re-immerse herself in something that is already ending. That has ended. Living, trapped in the safety of the last few seconds. 

She thinks about how staying any longer just leaves more opportunity to be caged, and she can’t do that.

The house is quiet as she slips into the dining room, her soft footsteps echoing in her ears. She slides a fingernail through the keyring to pry it open, dragging the key along the ring to set it free. It takes a moment and most of the fumes she’s still running on but she gets it. She presses it down into the table – she contemplates rummaging around in her bag for a pen and something to write on, but she knows there’s not really anything to say. Nothing worth writing, anyways.

As she doubles back for the door, she takes one last picture inside her mind. She’s not sure why. Maybe it’s just to always have the memory of something good just in case it doesn’t get better.

She makes sure the front door will be locked when she walks out and pulls it to behind her, already reaching for the phone in the pocket of her sweatpants to see if Megan will come pick her up on the corner. She needs caffeine. Desperately.

She takes the steps two at a time, stopping a few steps above the sidewalk when she sees a car turning into the driveway. Definitely not Megan.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Sean says as he gets out, and Scarlett forces herself to shove the corners of her lips up halfway in a smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Was in town,” she rasps out.

“Nice shirt,” he comments once he’s close enough to see Nikki and Vince plastered across her stomach.

“Thanks,” she says, because she was expecting a clean getaway and now she feels very awkward, what with getting her hand caught fresh out of the cookie jar. “We went and saw them last night.”

“Oh yeah? How was the show?”

“Good.” She rolls her weight over onto her right foot. “Exhausting.”

“You want to come in?” he offers, nodding in the very direction she came. “I can order us something, let you borrow the bed for a little bit.”

Scarlett’s lips press into a thin line, her smile beginning to chip away. “Sorry,” she says, and she hopes he can tell she means it. “I was only stopping by for just a second.”

Sean isn’t some green first time around the block. The words stick and start to permeate as they register, and his own smile loses some of that initial happiness. He knows what’s coming – it can’t come as a surprise, either. This is all they’ve been barreling towards, whether they’d had another few months of making out behind shrubbery at dinner parties under their belts or not. “Okay, then,” he concludes. “See you around?”

She gives a small nod in confirmation. When she glances over his shoulder, she sees Megan slowly pulling up – she’s a godsend, and this is why Scarlett keeps her on the payroll. “See ‘ya,” she says softly.

As she walks by, she stops long enough to let her lips barely brush over his check in a goodbye kiss. Her hands linger on his shoulders for just a moment, Sean impassive like a stone in the middle of her rushing stream. She moves past, she moves on, and once he is behind her, she doesn’t look back.


End file.
